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UP AND COMING 


BY 

NALBRO BARTLEY^ 

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G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 
Zbc *f:nicf?erboc[?er press 

1923 

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Copyright, 1923 
by 

Nalbro Bartley 






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UP AND COMING 


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UP AND COMING 


CHAPTER I 

His name might have been Tom Tuesday or 
Francis Finis had the circumstances of being sent 
to a London orphanage so fired the beadles’ imagi¬ 
nation. But their commonplace turn of mind to¬ 
gether with the time of his arrival caused the mite 
to be registered as Jones Bynight. 

No one paid any attention to either name or owner 
until thirty years later. Having crossed the Atlantic 
to cast his lot with the new world, Jones became 
engaged to Sophia Heiser, hired girl at his boarding 
house in Cornwall. 

Sophia regarded the name of Jones Bynight with 
the same awe that came to certain Americans in this 
year of i86i regarding British titles. Who would 
not change from Sophia Heiser, orphan drudge, to 
Mrs. Jones Bynight, wife of a carpenter employed 
in building the Dunlevy mansion? 

“It’ll be best for both, old girl,” as Jones argued, 
“I needs a wife to ’elp me on, you need someone to 
look after you. I can read and write if it don’t go 
too deep. You can’t. Your folks died in crossing 


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to America. I never ’ad none. Nobody gives tup¬ 
pence for us. You and me can start an American 
family. No telling where our kids will fetch up. In 
merry old England all I would ’ave would be the 
chance to slave for somebody else. What would you 
’ave ’ere? Together, we sets up to ’ousekeep and our 
grand-uns may live in the Dunlevy mansion yet!” 

Sophia whose apple cheeked beauty was some¬ 
what marred by smallpox marks, blushingly agreed. 
To her simple mind this wiry cockney was a super¬ 
person. ‘‘The chirper” he was called, a breezy sort 
with an “air of knowing how” even Mrs. Powder 
the landlady admitted. 

Sophia’s parents would have rejoiced at her good 
fortune. True, he was not of her people but this 
was America. Was she worthy of him? Jones 
assured her that she was and shortly after, it was 
rumored “the Dutchy and the chirper were to be 
spliced.” Whereat Mrs. Powder felt called upon 
to prophesy. 

“A hurrah’s nest, I call it,” she declared, “neither 
hay nor grass, this German and this Britisher pass¬ 
ing themselves off as Yankees. I’ve told Sophia to 
be sensible and wait until the war was over, but it 
isn’t any use when they’re in love. Took her as 
green as a windfall, taught her everything she knows 
and now, when I’ve advanced her to a dollar a week, 
she up and leaves. Owns nothing in the world but 
a wooden box of trash and her ma’s black plush 
dress. As for Jones—he’ll soon enough repent of 
his bargain.” 


UP AND COMING 


5 


Mrs. Powder’s pessimism did not delay events. 
Fate, in the form of a travelling circus, hurried the 
affair. For the management generously offered to 
any couple willing to be married in the lion’s cage 
the parson’s services and a three piece parlor suite. 
Upon hearing of the offer, Jones consulted with 
Sophia. Since they planned to be ffiarried, why not 
in the lion’s cage? It required no more nerve to 
stand in a corner of the cage, the trainer covering 
the drugged animal with a gun, than to have crossed 
the ocean under conditions both weathered. Sophia 
had watched her parents buried at sea. Alone 
and wretched, she had survived to take her first 
situation at Mrs. Powder’s boarding house, wonder¬ 
ing in her patient way what fresh calamity would 
visit her. Having endured the orphanage and being 
apprenticed to a carpenter, Jones regarded the lion’s 
cage as a lark rather than a hardship. Every effort 
must be made to buy a house. His children must 
have an education. 

With a dim yet worthy vision, a nobility of soul 
if not of caste, they accepted the circus manager’s 
offer. Wherewith the manager posted notices of the 
event, the bridal couple oblivious to public ridicule. 

The evening before the wedding, Jones and Sophia 
inspected the three room cottage Jones had rented for 
—it seemed a vast sum—eight dollars a month. Jones 
had borrowed from his foreman and together with 
Sophia’s few dollars, they invaded a second hand 
shop to secure enough for housekeeping. (The parlor 
suite to be delivered the day after the wedding.) 


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Already Jones assumed an air of ownership as he 
unlocked the door. It was his first experience in 
self respect, becoming a householder as well as a 
husband. He planned to teach Sophia to read and 
write, he would even go with her to the Lutheran 
Church since she was strong in the faith and he 
cherished none of his own. 

Sophia felt equally important. She would not cry 
if she should break a dish during the remaining 
hours at the boarding house. In haste she had 
trimmed her mother’s plush dress with beads, this 
was her bridal costume. Her heavy, honey colored 
hair would be braided fantastically, a white bow to 
serve as a veil. If the September day turned cold, 
there was her purple hug-me-tight as Mrs. Powder 
called it, which she had knitted in spare moments. 
Jones would wear his checked suit and a new derby 
hat. They would have some tin types made as soon 
as they were out of debt. For what more could one 
ask? 

“A tidy spot,” commented Jones, “let’s look over 
the Dunlevy pile on the way back.” 

She nodded. To Sophia’s mind the incompleted 
mansion of these rich Americans was of small con¬ 
cern. Her cottage was to be preferred. She visu¬ 
alized it with its parlor suite of black walnut and 
garnet plush, braided rugs, geraniums at the win¬ 
dows, she saw the kitchen clean and homelike because 
of her willing fingers, a pot of simmering soup 
giving out wholesome odors. She pictured children 
playing in the yard, Jones coming in to say he was 


UP AND COMING 


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made head carpenter! In due time there would be 
a parlor organ, a row of books for the children to 
study, a gold watch for Jones, a silk dress for her¬ 
self. Truly, she must prove worthy of her blessings. 

Because Jones wished it, she walked aimlessly 
through the new mansion listening to the cost of 
mantelpieces, details as to the panelled rooms. 

'‘The Dunlevys are as rich as kings,” Jones con¬ 
fided, “yet who can tell—our children may be their 
neighbors. At any rate, they’ll not be wed at a 
circus, will they, old girl?” kissing her to impress 
the fact that it mattered not a jot as far as he was 
concerned. “It’s up and on in this land. What’s 
good enough for a man’s father ain’t good enough 
for ’im. Not unless he chooses to ’ave it so. As 
we come up, down they goes,” indicating the Dun- 
levy house, “every fellow out for ’imself and no one 
too sure of anything for long. Come along, Sophia, 
we’ve got our own ’earth—leave the poor Dunlevys 
their palace.” 


By dint of hard yet harmonious work and Sophia’s 
unquestioned thrift, Jones bought the cottage after 
the birth of his second child. By this time the Dun¬ 
levys were living in their mansion, entertaining 
lavishly and Jones was a head carpenter engaged on 
municipal buildings. 

They called their first child Jones junior, the 
second Sophia. Meantime the reconstruction period 
following the civil war was at hand, business was 


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uncertain. Yet geraniums bloomed in the cottage 
windows and a goat furnished milk for the Bynight 
family. The parlor organ, gold watch and silk dress 
had not yet become realities. Two children and a 
third son to be born demanded all of Jones’ wages. 

Nor had Sophia learned to read. Their brief 
honeymoon had seen the beginning, with Jones the 
tender teacher, but after Sophia toiled over the 
alphabet, she wearied of such effort. She needed 
her strength for cooking, gardening, soon there were 
small clothes to make and dream over. She saw no 
need for “book ways.” So Jones read aloud to her, 
a quite satisfactory source of information. Sophia 
argued that printed words made the sunset no rosier 
or Jones’ love more true. Unconsciously, Jones 
enjoyed his superiority and was content to have 
it so. 

Sophia was a satisfactory wife. He had no wish 
to spend his time or money elsewhere than at home. 
He was eager to have his son finish the grade school. 
Then he would have a diploma and could become a 
clerk, keep his hands clean at work. The plans for 
little Sophia and the baby, Hans, were short lived. 
Within a week both children died from a fever 
epidemic which ran its course through certain city 
sections. 

Jones junior surviving, became his parents’ idol. 
He possessed his mother’s constitution and his 
father’s pleasant manner but none of their virtues. 
To this they were blind. In him they saw the child 
God spared them, every hope centered about his con- 


UP AND COMING 


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sequential little self. Nothing would be too great a 
sacrifice in order to give this son advantages. 

No other children came to Sophia although she 
longed for a daughter. 

‘‘Boys marry and leave you,” she told Jones, 
“he’ll never marry no working girl like me—I want 
somebody for company yet.” 

“Jones’ wife will be our daughter,” was his reply, 
“besides, ain’t you got me?” 

No further tragedy came to them during Jones’ 
childhood. They prospered modestly. When Jones 
was twelve years old, his father built an addition to 
the cottage, an extra room and a veranda. Sophia 
had two silk dresses and a locket and chain. She 
no longer scrubbed the paving stones before the 
cottage. 

Jones senior boasted of a watch, belonging to a 
lodge and having several men friends whose wives 
called on Sophia because “she was a good, hard 
working German woman who can’t help being real 
ignorant.” Sophia never realized their patronage. 
She shared her recipes and sent them freshly baked 
bread, helped them make lace or knit stockings. 
Hers was a childish pleasure merely in being alive. 
She worshipped her husband and son. They owned 
their home and had three hundred dollars in the 
bank. Only once had Jones been out of work. They 
must be doing rightly or God would not be so kind. 
Sophia did not realize she had lost her fresh beauty, 
or notice her son’s impatience when she failed to 
comprehend what he said. Her husband talked with 


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her son instead of with her, both ordered rather 
than consulted her. She was too happy in the secur¬ 
ity of their little home. Truly, America was the 
chosen land. 

In the fall of 1876, Jones was killed while at 
work, timber falling across his chest. The company 
made a settlement of a thousand dollars and burial 
expenses, impressing upon Sophia she should be 
grateful they had done as much. 

Too heartbroken to comprehend anything save her 
husband’s death, Sophia turned to her son for con¬ 
solation. His sympathy took the form of selfish 
advice. He felt his mother was useful only in a 
kitchen. Otherwise she disgraced him, she was 
illiterate, highly emotional and “pig-headed” as he 
graciously remarked. Years of hard work were 
developing a certain hysteria, common to Sophia’s 
kind. She was given to shrill scolding, brooding 
silence followed by a childish light-heartedness and 
foolish efforts to atone for her behavior. 


CHAPTER II 


Young Jones progressed in school unevenly. He 
refused to apply himself. To finish the grade school 
with as little effort as possible was his intention. 
His father’s primary class education furnished no 
incentive to go further. Bynight’s death gave his 
son the upper hand. Why remain in this working¬ 
man’s cottage? His schoolmates lived in far better 
neighborhoods, he was ashamed to have them at 
the house which angered his mother. She would 
persist in elaborate German cooking to make amends 
for her lack of culture. 

“Do they eat any better than that—tell me!” she 
would demand, heaping his plate with some indigest¬ 
ible delicacy. 

Jones did not choose to forge ahead in the same 
way his father had done, much less to serve anyone 
else. He prevailed upon Sophia, against everyone’s 
advice, to sell the cottage and buy a small grocery 
business, forerunner of the delicatessen store. She 
could bake goods for an added attraction and 
carry a line of tobacco and candies. Over the store 
were living rooms into which they moved and a 
garden patch lay behind the frame building. 

“Buy it at the German’s woman’^” became a 


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neighborhood slogan; even the Dunlevy’s sent their 
coachman for some of the Saturday apple cakes. 

Grieving for her husband and puzzled as to her 
son, Sophia turned to work with fanatical energy. 
To employ help would be sinful. She must save to 
secure her son's carefree future. The store yielded 
a good living. There were small overhead expenses. 
Sophia did all her housework and baked at night. 
Jones went to parties. 

He matured early, a handsome, worthless lad with 
a carefully cultivated mustache and an eye for trim 
ankles. He boasted of his top hat and flourishing 
handwriting as well as the ability to sing popular 
songs and accompany himself on the guitar. 

At eighteen, his relationship with his mother was 
openly contemptuous. He considered himself a 
gentleman who must marry his equal, his children 
would be the “real thing." He saw nothing wrong in 
pilfering his mother’s money or telling her to “hush 
up" in no uncertain fashion. 

His was a lazy routine. He waited on the store 
some of the time but the day was fast approaching 
when he would refuse to tie a white apron about 
his slender waist and ladle out prunes to the populace. 
Neighborhood girls were his constant patrons—to 
Sophia’s disapproval. She regarded them as “lazy 
flirts looking down on a poor hardworking woman.’’ 
Miserliness began to dominate her nature. 

Jones dressed in the latest style, his mother refus¬ 
ing to buy herself new clothes. For what? She was 
a widow, her son never went out with her, nor could 


UP AND COMING 


13 

she leave her store. People did not care to visit with 
her—merely to buy her wares. Inwardly, she re¬ 
gretted the lack of education, she wished she had 
kept at the lessons her husband so romantically of¬ 
fered. She was bitter because she realized it was of 
no use to struggle, life was a finished, stale affair as 
far as her progress was concerned. 

She had learned to sign her name and to count, 
no one fooled her in business matters except her son 
who purposely misrepresented and misquoted. 
Wholesale drummers insisted on dealing with So¬ 
phia, they had no use for her swaggering son who 
took charge of the profits and caused many of the 
losses. 

To rent the smartest team in town and take girls 
driving while his mother toiled baking her coffee 
cakes or washing his clothes was what occupied 
Jones these days. His was the stage of despising 
what had gone before but not ambitious for what 
might come, a selfish outlook precluding responsi¬ 
bility or progress. 

Shame entered into his thoughts but never inspira¬ 
tion. His father was a cockney carpenter, his mother 
an ignorant working girl—their marriage taking 
place at a circus all for a parson’s fee and some 
furniture! Such a background would not be his 
son’s—his son must marry a lady but he never 
planned how this would come to pass, what portion 
of the progress was his own concern. 

A weak character, the rebound from his parents’ 
strength, he proved harsh and tyrannical in personal 


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UP AND COMING 


relationships and easy, even stupid in his dealings 
with the world. 

By the time Jones was twenty, his mother lacked 
the vigor to shoulder the day’s task. This did not 
make for mutual harmony. When winter set in, 
with Sophia wretched from rheumatism and scolding 
like a shrew, Jones was obliged to bestir himself to 
the extent of making fires and carrying on the busi¬ 
ness in some sort of fashion. 

But he could not dress foppishly and go forth to 
matinees or hang around pool rooms, playing for 
individual pies and weak sherry instead of money 
as was then the vogue. He must open the store, 
listen to his mother’s complaints. A few weeks of 
which brought him to the decision that he would 
look for employment elsewhere. He was foolish not 
to have done so sooner, anything away from “the 
damned store.” 

After the holidays, Sophia staggered to her feet 
as regarded running the business, heartbroken from 
her son’s neglect. She had withered, it seemed, her 
bacon colored skin wrinkled and drawn and her 
bright eyes like a restless bird’s. In a wool dress 
her feet encased in carpet slippers and her thin hair 
strained into a knob, she presented anything but a 
pleasing appearance, yet her baked goods were in 
demand immediately. 

Jones announced his plans. “I’m no cotbetty,” 
he said in part, “and since you are feeling barely 
tolerable, I’m going to Grimshaw and Grimshaw to 
see if they want a man for the road. I’ve got to 


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get away. If you had been a different sort, Fd have 
gone through the academy—here I am, over twenty, 
wasting my time behind a counter.” 

An abusive tirade answered him. Jones was an 
ingrate, he hated his mother—better she should know 
it, she who loved him so. How had he acted during 
her illness—excepting when strangers were about, 
then he was polite to an alarming degree! He de¬ 
spised her, but God would punish him! Wait until 
he raised a son and that son turned on him and 
reproached him for what he had not done. She was 
glad his father was not here to witness his infamy. 
Had she not given him everything she could—how 
was she to know he must go to the academy? Was 
not his diploma from the grade school framed, 
proof of an education? It was the girls and the pool 
parlors that prevented his advancing. Once she 
thought America the finest land—when she was a 
bride and her dear husband was with her. Now 
she doubted the high sounding talk about America. 
Did mothers raise children only to have the children 
ashamed of their mothers? If so, the system was 
wrong. Better the child respect his parents even if he 
remained at their level ... he could go get his white 
fingered job—she would not interfere. He would 
be glad enough to come home to have his clothes 
mended, be fed and rested. And she would not re¬ 
fuse. Because he failed in his duty she would not in 
hers. He was her darling son, her firstborn—the 
tirade accentuated by the terrible boredom of drudg¬ 
ery Sophia had endured ended in sentimental hysteria. 


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Jones assured her this was all wrong, he paid 
careless tribute to pave the way for a loan and 
then set about to find a situation. He was a tall, 
handsome youth, better dressed than most. Grim- 
shaw and Grimshaw were favorably impressed, they 
wanted someone to cover the rural districts of that 
state. The salary was small but the occupation 
pleasing. Jones signed a contract. 

The more he thought of it, having explained it in 
exaggerated terms to everyone, the better pleased 
he was. He was stepping up; in line to become a 
salesmanager. This spurt of ambition caused him 
to devote a week to learn the stock and study the rural 
railway system. Most of the territory would have 
to be covered with a horse and wagon. 

Gradually, Sophia reflected his pride. Her son 
was a travelling salesman, he had bought her a house- 
dress, at wholesale, a stylish thing she thought. He 
insisted she wear a cap when waiting on the store. 
Too long had he endured the comments about her 
hair dressing. He bought himself a portmanteau, 
his mother gave him a set of brushes and, promising 
to write all the girls, Jones started on his new career. 

The position suited, a limited occupation requiring 
just such an easy way as Jones had, an ability to 
flatter, delighting to travel from hamlet to hamlet, 
staying at local hotels and joining for the time being 
into the local life. 

Sophia soon found she must hire help. She was 
unable to read her son’s letters, another drawback. 
She could not manage with a woman, no girl would 


UP AND COMING 


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work as hard as Sophia had done at the boarding 
house. Girls demanded three times as much wages 
and gave three times as little work. Sophia com¬ 
plained they had no personal interest in the business, 
were wasteful, dishonest. After several attempts 
at giving girls what she considered was a good home, 
she hired a man and paid him an amount beyond 
her wildest calculations. 

All this time Jones was sauntering, so to speak, 
throughout the countryside, drinking more than was 
wise but on the whole making good for his firm. 
Competition was not keen. Jones was amiable, he 
would wait around until the storekeepers were in¬ 
clined to gossip—and buy. He liked being removed 
from the grocery store atmosphere, his mother’s 
scolding, and he greatly enjoyed having a girl in 
every town, his veneer of city polish helping to cap¬ 
ture the belles with small effort. 

When he reported at headquarters in Cornwall, 
he was even polite to his mother, since he did not 
have to live with her. He knew his place was with 
her but justified his absence by arguing that he 
was advancing in the world, surely it was one’s duty 
to advance. 

He gave his mother presents but never money and 
spoke of refurnishing their living rooms. He in¬ 
sisted she have the building painted and buy striped 
awnings. 

“Wait until you bring your fine wife home,*' 
Sophia would say when he protested their meagre 
equipment. 


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UP AND COMING 


“As if a fine lady would come here/' was his 
retort. 

“Good enough for your mother, good enough for 
her,” was the jealous answer. 

Jones had never been in love with anyone save 
himself. He was popular with too many girls to 
think of one seriously. A wife was a difficult propo¬ 
sition to his reckoning. His mother would not be 
easy to live with unless the girl were of her own 
calibre. Most certainly Jones would never marry 
that kind of a girl. He had best remain single. 


CHAPTER III 


During a trip in the second year of his drummer- 
ship, Jones was taken ill at the hamlet of Naples and 
forced to remain. Severe weather coupled with in¬ 
discreet drinking brought on old fashioned grippe. 
As he lay in the hideous room of the Hotel Crystal, 
dependent on indifferent attention and a country doc¬ 
tor who had scant patience with city fellows, Jones 
had an infantile longing for his mother’s nursing, 
her love which knew no rebuff. 

He was up against the ‘‘cold, cold world” as the 
popular song then in vogue described and the result 
was childish homesickness. He reminded himself 
that a man his age—almost twenty-three—ought to 
be married. Who would care for him if he should 
be seriously ill? What was the sense of travelling 
about without a home to return to? As soon as he 
was out of this wretched room, he would find a 
suitable girl and make love to her! 

She must be educated, according to his ideas, and 
capable, strong yet good to look upon, someone with 
an even temper, kindly disposed to his mother. That 
she would adore him, he took for granted. What 
he might have to offer such a person was quite beside 
the question. 


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These altruistic qualifications attracted him to 
Martha Dunning, the Naples school teacher. Martha 
boarded at the hotel, her home being inaccessible 
during the winter. She had often noticed Jones in 
the dining room or taking some of the girls to ride. 
But Martha was not the flirtatious sort. Her father 
was a prosperous farmer and her step-mother re¬ 
garded Martha as a dreamer “slow as the moun¬ 
tains^’ when it came to getting the work underway. 
Family tradition had it that Martha was so gullable 
when a child, she allowed a younger brother to cut 
a hole in an umbrella so as to look out and see when 
it stopped raining. 

As much as possible, Martha lived in her tiny 
book-world. Pilgrim’s Progress, the Bible, Sunday 
school stories of sugary goodness. Her step-mother 
declared Martha was like her mother who had been a 
“clinging vine sort” as she said in the child’s pres¬ 
ence. Since a stepchild receives only the love it 
creates from step-parents, Martha had scant affection 
at her step-mother’s hands. Her half brothers and 
sister were given the preference and Martha was 
merely an “also ran.” When she was finally ap¬ 
pointed to teach the Naples school, her step-mother 
announced her satisfaction and her father dully 
accepted his wife’s opinions as final. 

With a high heart and emotional vision, Martha 
at seventeen came to Naples, returning home only 
for vacations. She was good to look at, her far 
apart dark eyes suggesting the orient, her nut brown 
hair braided about her well shaped head. She had 


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a strong, sure body, a contrast to her sensitive, un¬ 
even features. She made her own clothes, simple, 
colorful things and paid for her board and room by 
waiting on the hotel table mornings and evenings. 

After six years of this, Martha longed to be loved. 
She was an ambitious optimist with a courageous¬ 
ness of soul not apparent upon first acquaintance. 
Idealistic yet handicapped by the present day senti¬ 
mental standards, Martha forced herself to be 
blind to others’ defects. She would not see things 
as they were because all too often, things were 
wrong. She preferred to be absurdly credulous and 
imbued with orthodox theology. She believed in a 
regulation heaven and hell and when she caught 
herself wondering, she prayed to be forgiven. 

In brief, Martha knew what was right but she had 
no inkling of what was wrong. She had never been 
in a town larger than five thousand population. 
Naples was barely nine hundred. She had hopes of 
some day attending a city normal school and becom¬ 
ing an academy teacher, living in a real boarding 
house, free to go to theatres and concerts. But 
should she marry, her children must go to college, 
become cultured men and women no matter what 
effort was needed to bring this to pass. 

To date she had had but one bonafide suitor, an 
impossible countryman who would sit for half an 
hour at a time in bashful silence and then scrape 
back his chair and drive home without having said 
any of the boorish compliments which snailed 
through his brain. Martha had been annoyed by his 


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homage. Mr. and Mrs. Aziah Musty, proprietors of 
the hotel, joked about “Marthy’s beau—Phineas 
Bates—the cat’s got his tongue and Marthy’s stole 
his heart!” 

“Marthy deserves a good man,” Mrs. Musty de¬ 
clared, “but she’s that easy she is likely to get a bad 
one. Anyhow, the school board knows it won’t find 
a finer little school marm in the township.” 

It happened that Mr. Musty who carried up Jones’ 
meals was not home the Sunday evening Jones was 
pitying himself and planning to marry. Unexpected 
guests came in for supper and in the general flurry, 
Mrs. Musty asked Martha to “run up with the drum¬ 
mer’s vittles, I notice he eats, sick as he claims to be.” 

Martha shouldered the tray. She considered Jones 
a dashing chap who would never glance at her twice. 
Besides, she was a little his senior if what he said 
of his age was true. She was sorry he was ill and 
away from home. She rearranged the tray before 
she took it in. 

Jones was sitting in a topheavy rocker, unshaven 
and white faced, the smoky lamp showing an untidy, 
forlorn room. 

“Dear me,” began Martha gently, “you need house¬ 
cleaning. Draw up to the table. I’ll set the tray there. 
If you want more of anything you can have it. 
Staying indoors usually dulls an appetite. I’ll light 
a candle and take this lamp down and clean it—I 
better rake up the coals, too, a fire is such a cheery 
thing.” 

Jones agreed. With scant ceremony he set to 


UP AND COMING 


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work at his supper. Martha returned with the 
cleaned lamp and more coal. He watched her coax 
the fire into a blaze, sweep the hearth, dust about a 
little. She drew the shades evenly and re-made his 
bed. Everything she did was deft, it produced a 
miraculous change in the atmosphere. She hummed 
as she worked. When she came to take away his tray 
he saw how lovely her brown hair was, how dark and 
wise her eyes. Her personality stimulated him. He 
liked the red wool dress with its pale blue neck- 
ribbon. Her feet were small, well formed despite 
thick boots. Here was a girl with brains and yet 
she could work—a pleasing combination. 

‘‘Don’t go,” he begged, “it’s awfully dull—I’d like 
to talk.” 

“But I wait table,” she explained, smiling. 

“You are Miss Dunning, the school teacher, never 
• let me have a second word with you, did you?” Jones 
fibbed, “had to be sick and half frozen before you’d 
bother. That’s a fine way to treat a chap”; he felt 
very much better. He wished he had shaved and 
put on a collar and tie. 

Martha blushed. There was something pleasant in 
this bantering, she was glad she had put on the blue 
ribbon. 

“I must go,” she said slowly, “Mrs. Musty has 
company.” 

“Please bring me more coffee,” was his gallant 
order, “and if you have a spare moment—would you 
mend a fellow’s glove? I’ll buy you the finest blue 
ribbon you ever saw—is it a bargain?” 


24 


UP AND COMING 


‘‘I’ll gladly mend the glove but you must not bother 
about a ribbon. I will either send or bring the coffee. 
You need kindling, too. It will be a cold night.” 

Jones coughed. 

“How does the doctor say you are?” she lingered 
at the door. 

“Oh, so-so. He doesn’t think anyone is sick un¬ 
less they’ve been run through a thrashing machine. 
I expect to be out by Tuesday—but you have done 
more than the doctor. Just your smile would cure 
a chap.” 

Martha shook her head, embarrassed yet pleased. 

“Bring the coffee yourself,” he urged, “I must 
talk to you.” 

So Martha brought the coffee and the kindling 
and by the time she mended the fire, Jones experi¬ 
enced a thrill of interest. Here was a farmer’s 
daughter yet a school teacher, strong, lovely and 
gullable! What a wife she would make—why look 
further ? 

When Jones left Naples the last of the following 
week, the town knew he was “sparking the school 
marm.” Certainly he had bought her the handsomest 
ribbons he could find and box candy besides and 
taken her sleigh riding although he had been sup¬ 
posed to have had grippe. 

What the understanding between them was even 
Mrs. Musty was unable to ascertain. 

“Marthy’s a pretty fine girl,” Mr. Musty told 
Jones, “I want her to get as good as she deserves or 
else stay single and count her blessings.” 


UP AND COMING 


25 


Jones agreed. Well he knew Martha’s cheeks 
flushed at his approach and her eyes brightened. He 
had properly impressed her with his city manners, 
spoken familiarly of the theatre and opera, the town 
families—the Dunlevys for instance, of his mother’s 
flourishing store and the money she had made therein. 
Jones knew how to sell merchandise—himself in¬ 
cluded. 

He wrote her every day in his flourishing, copper 
plate hand and sent her a silver backed comb and 
brush when he reached Cornwall. His letters became 
longer and more sentimental. More and more he 
felt she would be the ideal wife. Her cheery 
presence stayed in his memory no matter how many 
other girls he flirted with, there was a childish sense 
of security in the hope of marrying Martha. 

He mentioned nothing of this to his mother who 
was almost childish after the lonely winter. But he 
cleared some of the “trash” from the house and set * 
to work to refurnish, Sophia paying the bills. He 
had a body brussels put down in the parlor, a yellow 
scrolled paper on the walls, some tufted chairs and a 
set of second hand historical novels in a little case. 
To change the rest of the place would be Martha’s 
task. He bought some unusually striking clothes and 
began using a perfumed hair oil. The neighborhood 
girls teased Sophia about Jones’ being in love. Some 
fine day he would bring home his wife—^wait and 
see. 

Wearied of work and its futility, Sophia said she 
would be glad if it would stop her son’s foolishness. 


26 


UP AND COMING 


He would stay home, perhaps enlarge the business, 
get rid of hired help. 

But Jones admitted nothing of his plans. He 
returned to Naples in the spring to find Martha 
even more lovely. She suggested spring herself 
in her eagerness at seeing him. She believed him 
both handsome and wise; a slight estrangement had 
grown up between the Mustys and herself due to 
their lack of approval of Jones. Martha had made 
herself a frock the color of daffodils to wear for his 
coming and her broad hat was trimmed with 
violets. 

The town wondered if the city drummer would 
make a good husband. Some of the girls envied her, 
the older people shook their heads. 

For two weeks Jones paid dutiful and unflagging 
court. Each day he hired the fastest horse and best 
buggy to drive over to Martha’s school and bring 
* her home. There was no mistaking his devotion. 
The dirt road contained many “thank-you-marms” 
which caused him to curse and lash his horse, yet 
when he was driving Martha back, he was jovial 
about the mud ruts, talking nobly of how a horse 
deserved consideration, easy driving. 

‘‘How’s this for high?” he asked one day as he 
drew up beside the churchyard, a secluded spot to 
talk, particularly when conversation was of a most 
personal nature. “Well, sorry yet that you know 
me?” 

Martha’s smile reassured him. 

He reached over and kissed her. “I guess we 


UP AND COMING 


27 


understand each other without any more waiting,’’ 
he said. 

Driving by a little later, Aziah Musty was the 
first to be included in their confidence. 

*‘She’s promised to marry me this same June,” 
Jones announced, “tell the board to find another 
teacher,” his arm around Martha with an air of 
authority. 

“Sizzling buckwheats,” was the flattering reply, 
“Marthy, have you thought it over careful like?” 

Martha nodded, too happy and confused to speak. 

“Wal,” Mr. Musty concluded. “I’ll git home to 
tell mother—she’ll know best what to say to both of 
you.” 

Neither Mrs. Musty’s protests nor the disapproval 
of Martha’s family who suddenly became actively 
interested in her future, had any influence. On a 
late June day, Martha and Jones were married in the 
parlor of the Crystal Hotel, with the school children 
forming the majority of the guests. 

Triumphant and swaggering, more nervous than 
was usual, Jones signed the marriage register, kissed 
his bride and ordered their luggage taken to the 
station. His mother’s absence was explained by ill 
health, he was to take Martha to her without delay. 

“Like as not to do the housework,” sniffed Mrs. 
Musty, “funny she never wrote nor sent Marthy 
anything—even Marthy’s folks give her a hundred 
dollars. She says he ain’t got any folks but his 
mother—that makes it all the worse—sounds to me 
as if Marthy would have to buckle to. The Lord 


28 


UP AND COMING 


should have put it somewheres in the Bible that no 
girl ought to live with her husband’s people—then 
maybe folks would have paid attention.” 

“Young Bynight got the best half of the bargain,” 
was her husband’s comment. 


CHAPTER IV 


Jones began the gentle art of disillusionment as 
soon as they were on the train. 

“Mother is an old German woman, you mustn’t 
mind her ways—as good as gold at heart but her 
ideas aren’t like ours. She never had a chance at 
school.” 

“School isn’t everything,” Martha corrected gener¬ 
ously, she was looking at the wide gold ring on her 
wedding finger. Just then nothing mattered save 
that she was Jones’ wife, going to live in the city. 

“It matters a little,” determined to satisfy his frail 
conscience and tell Martha as much as possible before 
she arrived home. “My father was an Englishman, 
he could read and write. Mother said he tried to 
teach her but housework and babies interfered. So 
poor mother only knows how to sign her name and 
here I am with a grade school diploma while you are 
a graduate of an academy. I wonder how you ever 
looked at me twice—and where our children will 
fetch up.” 

“College graduates,” was her quick answer, a puz¬ 
zled look in her dark eyes. “I didn’t know your 
mother was illiterate, you never said just that.” 

29 


30 


UP AND COMING 


^‘But you’re no snob,” he reminded tenderly, one 
hand stealing over to clasp hers. 

“Of course not—only I never thought of her just 
that way.” 

“She’s as fine a mother as a man could have only 
she gets on my nerves with her shabby dress and 
broken talk, peasant habits I guess you would call it. 
Work, work, work with a glass of beer and a sand¬ 
wich at night while she gossips about the neighbors. 
But if anyone is in trouble, she is first to help. It 
has been too much work for her always but she 
wouldn’t be happy doing any other way. She doesn’t 
know anything else although I’ve been at her to sell 
the store ever since she had rheumatism.” 

“Will you stay on the road?” Martha asked. 

“Not now, my dear,” he smiled beguilingly. “I’m 
going to ask for a city salesman’s job, think I’ll get it, 
too. Remember, I’ni not intending you to live over 
the store and work like mother. Just for a few 
months until I get started in town. We’ll move into 
a good neighborhood and that will be an end to the 
store keeping. You must be patient, remember you 
have married a man who is not worthy of you,” 
beginning that timeworn defense which should ex¬ 
cuse his shortcomings on the ground of her 
superiority. 

Martha did not see through the ruse. She felt 
magnanimous towards this wornout mother and a 
pride and trust in Jones. Nothing could dim her 
gladness. 

They stayed a few days at a town near Cornwall 


UP AND COMING 


31 


where Jones conducted his business and showered 
attention on his bride. A silk dress, a plumed hat and 
boots with tassells were among his offerings. They 
occupied the best suite in the hotel and went carriage 
riding and to the minstrels. Martha wrote everyone 
how happy she was, what a wonderful husband Jones 
proved to be. She invited them to Cornwall to 
witness her good fortune. She made Jones go to 
church, he did not object—this once. He was proud 
of Martha and somewhat worried over bringing her 
to his mother who was unaware of her existence. 
Something in Martha’s happy eyes made him 
reluctant to confess his deceit. 

A few days later they went on to Cornwall. It 
was not until they were nearing the station that Jones 
told her. 

“I could not write mother only to have strangers 
read and tattle the news,” he said in self defense, 
‘Vhen I was home, she was too ailing to talk to 
seriously. So I concluded to marry and bring you 
back to her. When she sees what a sweet girl you 
are, she’ll love you and forgive me. You forgive me, 
don’t you, sweetheart?” 

“You haven’t even told her?” Martha said slowly, 
“v^hy—you—you fibbed then about her messages, the 
lace she wanted to give me—the love she sent. Jones, 
I don’t like beginning this way.” 

He pulled his hat over his eyes, tugging sulkily at 
his brush of a mustache. “Not my fault,” he com¬ 
plained, “I’ve tried to be fair—aren’t you broad 
minded? Mother is mother—you’ll have to adjust' 


32 


UP AND COMING 


yourself to her ways, it is easy enough. Her scold¬ 
ings go in one ear and out the other as far as Fm 
concerned. She means well. Come, Martha, don’t 
be rough on a fellow—I’m square enough. You 
couldn’t have done any better. We won’t be living 
over the store long—and mother will be a lot of help 
to you in the cottage.” 

Martha stared out the window, the smoky, dirty 
station confused her. She realized how dependent 
she was upon one Jones Bynight, how removed from 
her former environment. Foolish pride and her 
romantic heart combined to make her accept his 
arguments. 

“I suppose you were not to blame, but I wish she 
knew. Don’t let’s live over that store for long—I’d 
never want any company there.” 

“You bet we won’t,” relieved at her quick for¬ 
giveness. “And don’t let mother bother you. Re¬ 
member, she can’t help being different.” 

But neither Martha nor her mother-in-law were 
capable of impersonal viewpoints, both were des¬ 
perately personal. The bread labor of Tolstoy’s 
advising had comprised Sophia’s life, unconsciously 
she was jealous of a woman who taught school in¬ 
stead of washed clothes. She resented her son’s 
deceit and, true to form, blamed his wife for it. She 
had put him up to it. Because he had married a school 
mistress with a silk dress and plumed hat, she would 
not wait on her. She would still serve her son and 
the customers but never her daughter-in-law. The 
sooner this was understood the better. Martha must 


UP AND COMING 


33 


prove herself useful. Having married Jones, she 
could accept what he offered or go without. Sophia 
would not sell her business to go live with her son’s 
wife and do their work while they spent her money, 
relinquish her one claim to economic independence. 
She felt a renewed interest in the store, an unworthy 
delight in watching Martha mourn stoically over un¬ 
congenial surroundings. Inwardly, Sophia pitied her 
daughter-in-law, she recognized her as being of finer 
clay than Jones. But she would never admit it. 
Instead, she scolded and sulked until Martha began 
to live within a life of her own—a thought world 
peopled with her children and their glorious, un¬ 
trammelled futures. 

She did not share this vision with Jones. 
Indeed, after a few weeks Jones became as indif¬ 
ferent to Martha’s wishes as to his mother’s. She 
was too useful a wife to remain a romantic considera¬ 
tion. He loved her in a shallow, tyrannical fashion 
but he wanted to be going about as he wished, see¬ 
ing the latest shows, playing cards in the backrooms 
of saloons, gossiping with men of his own kind. 
His wife and mother, no matter how uncongenial, 
must combine to make his home comfortable. 

He refused to listen to his mother’s protest as to 
Martha or Martha’s gentle complaints. 

“Fight it out between you,”’ he would say, jauntily 
reaching for his hat, “you wouldn’t be humans if you 
didn’t like to have something to row about. Mother, 
don’t you order Martha around—if she wants to 
stay upstairs instead of waiting on trade, she can do 


34 


UP AND COMING 


it. Never you mind about my mother's fussiness, 
Martha, she has the right to be so." 

A readjustment of affairs happened after several 
months of this sort of existence. Sophia fractured 
her ankle. She was helpless and in pain to say noth¬ 
ing of being under abnormal expense. 

Her son regarded the accident as a personal griev¬ 
ance but Martha took advantage of it to prove her 
worth yet assert her independence. 

By this time, she had relinquished any hope of 
knowing people or enjoying social life. Already a 
barrier between herself and the world was erected. 
But she comforted herself with the thought that her 
children would prove a sufficient source of contact. 
She no longer curled her hair or wore silk dresses. 
Her books were unpacked but not arranged, her 
trinkets huddled together in her bedroom. She 
lacked ambition to bring about any improvements 
which would necessitate arguments with Sophia. She 
told herself she must wait until she should be in 
her own home, that this interlude was to teach 
patience, tolerance. 

Now that her mother-in-law was helpless, Jones' 
lack of sympathy spurred Martha to action. She 
nursed her tenderly, doing the housework as well, 
flying down at each tinkle of the store bell. She 
could not, however, manage the baking. So 
customers went away empty handed as regarded 
‘‘those good German things." 

“I wish I could bake them," Martha said, “I’m 
afraid they will start going somewhere else.” 


UP AND COMING 


o:) 

Sophia’s face brightened. This commercial in¬ 
terest won her heart. 

“Ya,” she agreed, ‘‘so it is!” Then she proposed 
that Martha push her in a chair to the kitchen table 
and let her try to mix the dough while Martha took 
the steps. Martha agreed. 

It was a hard morning—that initial baking— 
Sophia’s voice scolding shrilly, endless trips to the 
store, getting dinner for Jones and seeing the baked 
goods was finished to Sophia’s satisfaction. 

In the afternoon Sophia insisted on another baking 
session. Jones 'came home to eat, commenting 
flippantly on “the new bakeress, good luck to her.” 
Obligingly, he agreed to stay away for supper—a 
friend had invited him to his house, Martha had 
been asked also but he knew she could not leave 
his mother. 

For a moment Martha wanted to desert her post, 
dress in her best and leave this hideous little place 
with its odors of cooking. She started to protest 
Jones’ selfishness but the sight of his mother made 
her hesitate. Of what use would it be to go—only 
to return to the same environment and be disliked for 
her rebellion. 



CHAPTER V 


That night after the shop was closed and Martha, 
aching of bone and weary of heart, had seen that 
Sophia was comfortable, she went into her room 
preparatory to a long, helpful cry. But the jingle of 
Sophia’s bell called her back to duty. 

Biting her lips to gain self control, Martha 
answered. The old woman wanted her to sit beside 
her, she resented Jones’ conduct to his young wife. 
Sophia realized the hard future which lay before 
Martha, also that there was little to be done about it. 
She, Sophia, had married a man who worked for 
her and loved her. But this girl who proved worthy 
of- the hardest task and who was gentle of heart as 
well, she had married a man who would neglect her. 
To Sophia’s untrained mind education caused the 
situation. Those years at school when Jones 
should have been working had done the mischief. 
She wanted to tell her daughter-in-law something of 
this, that she was proud of her and grateful for all 
her labor but she did not know how. She dimly 
comprehended that Martha felt removed from 
Sophia’s world, soul bruised and physically depleted 
as well, that her one hope was in the thought of 

36 


UP AND COMING 


37 


the child which was to come to her, that hope alone 
removed her from utter despair. 

So the conversation was of monosyllable variety. 
Sophia could not bring herself to abuse her son and 
her praise of Martha was merely praise for baking 
the bread stuffs an even brown—not praise for her 
valiant spirit. Martha regarded her as a cross old 
woman who hampered progress, she said goodnight 
as soon as possible. 

Martha did not wholly blame Jones but his 
mother! When they had their own home and Sophia 
was not with them, things would be different. Their 
children would make it so. She almost had a vision 
to this effect. 

Only once before had Martha had a vision. That 
was on a June Sunday when she was playing the 
church organ. During the ponderous sermon, she 
feasted her eyes on the fields without—sun drenched 
fields of flowers, flickers, meadow larks, bluebirds 
called to her as she gazed. Just what her vision had 
consisted of would have been impossible to define. 
It hinted of a blossoming of soul, a greatness of 
purpose. No brittle details marred the vague 
splendor, she had seemed close to a divine presence. 
She remembered the effort it had been to turn back 
to the wheezy organ and play a stereotyped hymn of 
grace. 

So it was this night. Oblivious to the lamp lit 
room with its cheap furnishings, the city hum which 
drove past the window, the broken groans of the 
sleeping woman, Martha sat with her tired head rest- 


38 


UP AND COMING 


ing on one fine, strong arm and felt again a fragrant 
nearness to something inspiring. 

She was seeing her son as a man of high ideals, 
achievement. In him was her reward for drudgery, 
disillusionment. And she was glad. The reward 
would be sufficient. 

This third Jones Bynight, for she must have a 
son, would climb high—Just then Jones came in to 
find her. She did not notice his intoxication, she 
was not inclined to find fault or complain of neglect. 

Jones was excessively goodnatured, relieved not 
to be greeted with nagging. “You are a fine girl,” 
he began, kissing her noisily. “I bet you’re tired out. 
But you’ve shown mother you can go her one bet¬ 
ter. I hope she appreciates it. To tell the truth, 
since I’ve watched how you take hold of things. I’m 
going to give up my job and add on to the store, 
work back into it myself. That would give you 
time for the house—and a little baking. We could 
build up a big business, Cornwall’s growing. I mean 
to keep mother out of it, she’s too old fashioned and 
cranky. What do you say ?” 

‘T’d rather have you with Grimshaw,” Martha 
protested, ‘T’d always be in the store more or less, 
no matter what you promised.” 

“I don’t see why. Grimshaw won’t advance me 
much more. I want to be my own boss. This is 
a fine little business only it needs up-to-date methods. 
We would have a fine store—you and me, Martha,” 
he put his arm around her. 

“I won’t have time from now on,” she reminded, 


UP AND COMING 


39 


‘‘don’t you realize I’ll be busy with our child?” Her 
face was very lovely as she looked up at him. 

Jones shrugged his shoulders. “He’ll be a lot of 
bother,” he objected, “gad, I hate to hear a baby 
holler—I hope he’ll be quiet.” 

“But they’re so wonderful,” she was tearful, “why 
talk of being a bother? Do you begrudge me to the 
child, is that it? Can’t you ever think of anyone 
but yourself and your interests?” 

“I thought of you enough to marry you,” was his 
retort, “I’m glad for the child only I want business 
on a settled basis—and mother’s a bother, no use 
talking. I’m thinking as much for your interests as 
my own. You women are all the same, cry babies 
and complainers. Ready to snap a fellow up on the 
least pretext.” He threw off his coat and sat down 
heavily in a chair. “You look like the devil in that 
dress and your hair uncombed,” he commented, “I 
wonder why women as soon as they are married 
grow careless in appearance. Men never do.” 

“Men don’t stay home and work sixteen hours out 
of the twenty-four, taking care of someone else and 
a business, too, doing their own house work the best 
they can. Men seldom do anything they don’t want 
to do. You wouldn’t do for your own mother what 
I do—and little thanks for it do I get. You aren’t 
fair to either of us. You didn’t tell me the truth 
about your mother and you didn’t tell your mother 
about me. I can see there’s little ahead for me—but 
I’ll see that there’s a lot ahead for my children,” 
Martha wondered at her own spirit. 


40 


UP AND COMING 


Jones stood up and kicked the chair out of the 
way. His good humor changed to ill. “You with 
school marm airs—hoity hoity! I suppose you think 
you’re better than we are. I noticed your family 
didn’t make much of you and you were glad enough 
to get married. Suppose I didn’t tell you everything 
—‘all’s fair in love and war’—ain’t it? You prob¬ 
ably thought you’d be a lady and never do a lick of 
work. Read books and dream—like an old maid. I 
guess I average up as good as any man—I support 
you—I never abused you, did I?” 

Martha was silent. 

“My mother has always worked harder than you,” 
he added, irritated by her silence. “Why, she never 
knew what natural gas or a carpet sweeper was. 
You better count your blessings.” 

“That is why you despise her,” Martha found 
herself saying, “Do you want your son to be as you 
are, aren’t you hoping he will be a finer, wiser man ? 
That’s the very spirit of fatherhood.” 

“I don’t want any starchy airs. I want to see 
him a success but I won’t work my fingers off to give 
it to him. He’ll only look at me as you say I look 
at my mother. Have sense, don’t stay up in the 
clouds. You and me have a long time to live to¬ 
gether and we better get along as easy as we can.” 

“That is true,” she said soberly. 

He turned to leave the room. “I’m going to get 
some beer—want a glass ?” 

“No, I’m tired.” 

“Oh, of course,” was the tender answer. 


UP AND COMING 


41 


Still Martha’s vision was unclouded. She would 
forge ahead for her children, reform their father, 
remove their grandmother’s carping influence, keep 
sane of mind and strong of body in order to accom¬ 
plish her programme. 

According to tradition the snakes’ skins and gob¬ 
blers’ breastbones all agreed on a mild winter. But 
Martha found it anything but that. Sophia did not 
regain health, palsy settled upon her and she was 
dim of sight. She was forced to sit with shaking 
hands and watch Martha assume command. She 
became silent as to her opinions. 

Jones took occasion of this illness to resign from 
the drygoods concern and enlarge the grocery store. 
He forced his mother to advance the money for im¬ 
provements. Martha was unable to be downstairs 
and care for his mother, too, so Jones ran the busi¬ 
ness and ran it badly. 

Gradually, Martha and Jones dropped any pretense 
at the niceties of life, theirs became a sordid partner¬ 
ship, that of many husbands and wives who have let 
romance die. Jones began to regret his “early mar¬ 
riage with a school teacher.” He felt Martha too 
sensitive and dreamy to suit his needs, she lacked 
a coarseness of makeup which he admired. For 
instance, he was provoked when she disliked his 
cheap stories and refused to drink with him, she 
frowned at playing pedro for small sums in com¬ 
pany with married couples of questionable calibre. 

She was both drudge and dreamer; his mother had 
been solely a drudge. That was endurable. But a 


42 


UP AND COMING 


dreamer was beyond him, a constant source of irri¬ 
tation. Moreover, there was the legal finality to 
their relationship which encouraged the bully and 
tyrant in his nature. 

In the spring, just before Martha^s son came, 
Sophia died. She seemed a wretched child as she 
lay in her coffin, heavy lines caused by work and 
suffering criss-crossing on her thin forehead. 

Her death was a relief to Martha but a joy to 
Jones. He could spend his mother’s thrifty savings 
as he wished. Martha felt a spiritual lightening, 
the heavy influence of this disappointed old soul 
was lifted and new courage given her instead. She 
would rely on the child’s birth to make Jones realize 
the man’s part he must play. They would leave the 
grocery store environment. She began to hope 
anew, like a dying blaze rekindled by unexpected 
breezes. She was almost content. Yet she missed 
Sophia, an unspoken camaraderie had developed be¬ 
tween these two, they both loved the same worthless 
man! 


CHAPTER VI 

In June, 1885 the third Jones Bynight wailed 
into the world to his mother’s delight and his father’s 
annoyance. 

For a period of fifteen days, Martha ‘‘played 
lady” as Jones reminded her. That is she had the 
indifferent services of a midwife until she struggled 
onto her feet and went to work. 

Jones said she pampered the baby, if he wanted 
to cry, let him—it developed his lungs. Why this 
washing and fussing all the time? Let him alone. 
Anyone would think him a prince consort to see his 
lace trimmed clothes—a baby was a baby, a noisy 
addition to the household. Martha made a fool of 
herself. 

Besides building on bay windows and buying new 
scales, Jones had done little to improve the business. 
He could not be satisfied to remain in the store. 
Even the glistening sign of “Jones Bynight, Green¬ 
grocer” gave him no sense of ownership. Too often 
he left the place in the thieving hands of a clerk and 
went to play cards or swap tales with bar room 
cronies. It was a relief to be away from the atmos¬ 
phere of baby clothes and Martha’s white face. He 

43 


44 


UP AND COMING 


was unconsciously jealous of her devotion to the 
boy. She had less time to cook his favorite dishes 
or pamper his whims. He regarded the child with 
anything but affection. When he brought people up 
to see him, always at a most inconvenient time and 
usually waking him from a nap, he would say: 

'‘A bouncer, isn’t he? Let’s hope he grows up 
to be a credit to his poor old dad.” 

When Jones junior was six weeks old, Martha 
returned to waiting on store. She had mentioned 
she wished his mother might have lived to see her 
grandson. 

“Then we’d have had two babies on our hands— 
no, thank you. You and mother would have quar¬ 
relled over his care—she wouldn’t have done the 
things you do. A regular old fuss.” 

“I don’t do half the things I would like to,” 
Martha protested, “I wish he could have a nursery 
all in white-” 

Her husband cut her short. “You’d like heaven 
itself, wouldn’t you? Wait until you’ve had another 
and you’ll not be particular. You don’t realize how 
I need you downstairs—hired help is very unreliable. 
Surely you could bring him down in a basket for a 
few hours a day?” 

So Martha did. The mechanical round of life 
gripped her, she knew it was futile to protest. She 
realized she was the stronger, better person, help¬ 
less because of her husband’s weakness. She must 
be man of the family yet do a woman’s work. She 
stopped idealizing Jones, hoping he would become 



UP AND COMING 


4S 


other than a critical idler who must be wheedled or 
fairly driven into working, who would oppose every 
benefit she endorsed and whose presence was certain 
to be dreaded by his family. 

Jones junior thrived, a lusty, spirited chap who 
adored his mother and scowled at his father, seem¬ 
ingly as content when placed behind the pickle keg 
while customers shuffled in and out as if he had been 
in the white nursery of his mother^s fancy. 

When he finished his ‘‘eternal crawling” and was 
standing on tottering, stout legs, having learned that 
his father’s temper was short and his mother nothing 
less than a kindly saint, the second child, Marian, 
was born. Again the blowsy midwife took charge of 
the household whereat Jones and Jones junior re¬ 
belled but to no purpose. 

“It never pays to be too comfortable,” Martha 
told herself in a spirit of fanatical sacrifice, “I don’t 
think one grows spiritually unless they have to shoul¬ 
der big responsibilities. I must not complain.” 

Her books collected dust and her hands became 
red and rough as she struggled with the two children 
and tried to believe this was the will of God, a hap¬ 
pier lot than most. Besides, her joy lay in the hope 
that the children would never endure similar condi¬ 
tions. 

There was no chance for them to leave the grocery 
store. In fact, it narrowed to their sole means of 
support since Jones settled down to be supported. 
He owned the store but his wife must run it He 
had no ambition to seek further. 


46 


UP AND COMING 


He was used to “kids around’’ when the third 
child arrived in 1888. He even took an interest in 
her, naming her Patricia because her mother had 
asked to have her named Sophia. She was his 
favorite, gay and volatile with a Dresden doll beauty, 
a contrast to Marian who was a sober, delicate look¬ 
ing little person, distinctly a thinker. Young Jones 
remained his mother’s idol, little tolerated by his 
father but nevertheless preserving his sense of happi¬ 
ness and a rugged constitution. 

In this confining situation Martha toiled—“and 
was troubled with many things.” Shut away from 
the world she craved, her children became her re¬ 
ligion. No task too great if it tended toward their 
emancipation. From cleaning oil lamps and tend¬ 
ing fires, cooking three, sometimes four hearty 
meals each day, baking for the store, washing and 
ironing late at night to tending a garden patch and 
trying to keep her mind receptive for progressive 
ideas—so Martha struggled. Her daily prayer was 
but three sentences. “Lord, keep me well. Let 
us get into our own home. Let my children go to 
college.” 

The children grew up despising yet fearing their 
father, a trifle disrespectful yet pitying their mother. 
At eight years, Jones’ resolve was to be “so rich his 
mother wouldn’t have to lift her finger.” 

There was too much deception in the Bynight 
household to make for wholesomeness. The children 
deceived their father to escape punishment. They 
deceived their mother to avoid her crying over what 


UP AND COMING 


47 


she called ‘‘misconduct.” She took a violent pride 
in having them ‘‘different from the other young ones 
in the block.” They were bathed twice a week in¬ 
stead of holding by the Saturday night standards. 
They said their prayers while she listened no matter 
how tired she might be. They kissed each other 
goodnight. They learned poems and Bible verses. 
She tried to give them every advantage of which she 
was capable. They were imbued with the idea of 
progress. They knew that keeping a grocery in a 
poor part of town and having a mother whose hair 
was untidy was merely the introduction to better 
things. They were to become rich, famous, gracious 
of manner. Their father was a stumbling block, to 
be endured and fooled as to what was taking place. 
Tiny treats or indulgences, what he would term “gol 
darned foolishness” were kept from his knowledge. 
Martha justified it as follows: 

“Mother worked extra hard for it while your 
father played cards and drank beer—I guess God 
won^t mind if we never tell.” 

The entire burden of existence rested on Martha’s 
willing but abused shoulders from the time of Patri¬ 
cia’s birth. Bynight’s favorite answer when she ap¬ 
pealed to him to make a greater effort was: “You 
are so much smarter than my mother or me—go on 
—win the family fortune.” 

He seemed to enjoy her struggling to meet de¬ 
mands, never sparing of her own resources. In 
time Martha turned to her son for companionship. 
Together they weathered the storm. She told him 


48 


UP AND COMING 


her hopes and fears, he listening with a graveness 
worthy of twice his years. Martha did not realize 
this prevented normal development, that Jones 
should have been playing with children instead of 
being huddled on a kitchen chair while Martha 
worked, telling him of what the future must hold 
for the family. 

Their comradeship irritated his father, he took 
every possible occasion to punish the boy because he 
knew it pained his mother. He made him the butt 
of coarse ridicule in front of people, belittled his 
eiforts and intimidated him in every way he could. 
He was foolishly indulgent with the girls, particu¬ 
larly Pat. 

Jones’ first disillusionment came when he dis¬ 
covered grownups were not all they insisted a child 
should be. He kept the discovery a secret. No need 
to worry his mother about it. He obeyed his father 
because he was cowed, as yet brute strength pre¬ 
vented defiance of this idle fellow who made them 
so wretched. But he bided his time. He never re¬ 
sented the favoritism shown the girls—‘T’d rather 
father took it out on me,” he would declare. 

'‘Jones, Jones,” Martha would answer, “never 
mind—just wait and you will get your reward.” 

Peasant habits acquired from Sophia and her 
present environment were creeping into Martha’s 
personality. She was ignorant of this—of her some¬ 
times untidy way of eating, her uncouth speech when 
excited. Just as Sophia had been ground into a 
physical wreck by dint of never ending work, so 


UP AND COMING 


49 

Martha was being ground down—only Martha had 
a vision which both maddened yet rescued her. 

Her attitude towards Jones changed, she was no 
longer submissive. Since she took charge of both 
business and family, she took upon herself the 
proper authority. She had stood by to watch his 
unfair temper long enough. The harder she worked, 
the more he loafed. She was unable to inspire him 
to other than drunken habits. She made no friends 
save neighbor women, coarse, friendly ceatures who 
had advised her “to try a rolling pin” and declared 
she was spoiling her children, “bringing them up 
too fine.” 

When Jones was nine a significant event proved 
Martha’s leadership. Having saved his paper route 
money, Jones bought a postage stamp album, a 
cheap affair but to his mind a treasure worthy of 
Midas. Coming upon him unexpectedly, his father 
demanded the source of the book. 

“Bought it with my own money,” Jones cringed. 

“One dollar,” his father read the price mark. “So, 
that’s what you do with your money, you selfish 
young cub—with your mother and me working to 
feed you. I’ve a good notion to tan you until you 
can’t stand—get up here—give the stamps to me, 
d’ye hear—if there’s going to be any collectors in 
this family it will be me—there,” crumpling the 
stamps into a little ball. 

“Oh, pa, I saved the money,” he protested, 
“Mother said I could.” 

“You’re not dealing with your mother,” he 


4 


50 


UP AND COMING 


snarled, his eyes red with anger, “it’s your father and 
if my word doesn’t count, my horsewhip will. I’ll 
learn you to talk back—your own money—you puny 
little runt with a king’s conceit-” 

Marian and Pat, playing nearby, crept up to him. 

“Mother did say he could,’’ Marian began, “really 
truly, pa.” 

“Get out of the way, little busybodies,” was the 
answer, “or you’ll find what isn’t good for you— 
come here, boy, take that stamp album and put it on 
my dresser and stay upstairs until I come—you’ll 
not want to come down for a time. I’m thinking.” 

Tear blurred, flaming with hatred, Jones obeyed. 
Marian darted off unseen. Her mother was waiting 
on a customer. But she knew when she might inter¬ 
rupt. The customer was left waiting while Martha 
ran up the stairs, colliding with her husband at the 
landing. He held the whip behind his back but she 
pointed at it. 

“Drop that, you coward.” 

Jones swore unpleasantly. 

Martha opened the door leading to the store, the 
customer was a willing audience. 

“If you touch that child,” she said slowly, “for no 
reason but cussed ugliness. I’ll call for help. Fm 
boss here. I’m not going to stand by and let you 
do what your temper tells you is fine fun. I let him 
buy that album, I took fifty cents to get extra stamps, 
too. If you think you can bulldoze me, you’re wrong, 
I’ve lived with you too many years not to know you 
for a coward. As long as you keep in your place. I’ll 



UP AND COMING 


51 

work to bring up the children. But you can’t beat 
’em like dogs because you’ve nothing better to do.” 

He was silent. 

‘‘I know they can hear in the store—I want they 
should,” Martha added, “nothing to be proud of, 
either. But we had to have a reckoning and it may 
as well be now. I can get out of here, support my 
children if you want to turn us out. I’m not afraid 
—that’s the whole battle. Or else you can take your¬ 
self out of here as long as you hold a horsewhip for 
a nine year old boy! God pity such as you.” 

Jones muttered something about impudence and 
devilishness but Martha stood guard at the landing. 
The store bell kept tinkling, more customers were 
listening. Swearing, Bynight turned and went into 
the barn. Triumphantly, Martha released her son. 

“I’d rather have stood for it,” Jones protested, 
“than to have had those words—they sounded so, 
mother—and you’re all warm and crying. I hate 
him, hate him,” he put his head on her shoulder. 

“Never mind, dearie, mother’s not going to have 
things go any worse than she can help,” Martha was 
breathing heavily, she had won a great victory. 

The scene made a vital impression on the boy. 
Wakening the next morning with the spontaneous 
joy of being alive, he was about to jump from bed 
when the remembrance of last night’s happenings 
caused him to shiver. This delicate tragedy made 
Jones resolve that his children should sleep with 
none but happy hearts, free of dread. 

Bynight never mentioned the incident. He even 


52 


UP AND COMING 


avoided Jones, speaking to him as little as possi¬ 
ble. But six months later the album, now bursting 
with treasures, was missing and a Swedish boy liv¬ 
ing two blocks away and whose father had “barrels 
of money’’ told Jones that his father had purchased 
the album from Mr. By night. 

“My father pay three dollar for it,” boasted the 
Swedish boy, “your father bane say you too young 
to appre-ci-ate.” 

Jones never told his mother. It would re-open a 
wound. She had enough to bear. Pat was im¬ 
pudent and Marian would not wipe the dishes. His 
father took money from the cash drawer. Moreover, 
the real pleasure of the album had been dissipated 
that first day. Jones, too, lived in a visionary future 
when there would be no father and his mother re¬ 
ceived her just reward. 


CHAPTER VII 


In 1898 Martha had a chance to sell the store and 
put the money into a double house in a modest neigh¬ 
borhood. Her husband was quite willing, the store 
was a burden and he was now fired with the idea 
of inventions, cheap patents which should fool the 
public and make his fortune. As Tilly the cleaning 
woman said of his proposed musical instrument: 

“Sure he must plan to have a body blow at either 
end simultaneously like while you pick the tune out 
of the middle with a can opener!’^ 

Bar room loafers could catch his ear, he was al¬ 
ways looking for a way to get money without earn¬ 
ing it. 

Martha paid little heed to his nonsense. She kept 
the cash drawer down to meagre proportions and 
had the courage to deny him more. She ordered 
him about when she chose but as she told her son: 
“It is more bother to get him to do things than to 
do them myself—he never does them the right way, 
seems as if he delighted in- doing them the way I 
didn’t want.” 

Martha’s move afforded great satisfaction. She 
felt their hardest days were ended. Foreigners com¬ 
ing into the store neighborhood had both forced yet 


54 


UP AND COMING 


made easy the sale. The double house gave a modest 
income. Martha planned to do sewing, go out to 
serve dinners and care for small children afternoons. 
She decided they would get along as well as they had 
at the store. Besides, her own family gave a little 
help. They took the girls on the farm during the 
moving period and dressed them out, they said, to 
last a year. The half-sister who had visited Martha 
and appreciated her struggle, sent furniture for the 
new home, ponderous walnut it is true but highly 
acceptable. 

Her husband admired Martha’s endeavors in his 
cheap way. He paid her tribute when he was good 
natured or wanted a loan. Such as: “No use talk¬ 
ing, Martha, you can put the top dressing on a lawn 
as well as the Dunlevy gardener,” or “How do you 
do it all, mother? Sew and cook and order a pack 
of kids and a worthless husband about—hey? As 
good looking as the day we met if you’d dress up. 
Give us a kiss. Oh, have you three dollars that ain’t 
working ? This is for something that will benefit all 
of us—yes, it is—a surefire thing—give it to me 
and see, take a sporting chance—that’s my partner 
—come on, loosen up—thanks—no, Martha, don’t 
go to lifting anything heavy until Jones comes from 
school. I guess mother would have been surprised 
to see us in our own house—and an income besides.” 
Saying which, he would disappear. 

Martha found plenty of persons who wanted her 
services, she made excellent friends as well, people 
who realized all this woman was undertaking. The 


UP AND COMING 


55 


Bynight children were liked, they were unspoiled, 
eager for knowledge and affectionate. It was a 
shame about their father, everyone said. Still, the 
children would profit by his example, that was the 
way it usually went. They hoped they would repay 
their mother for all she had done, everyone was cer¬ 
tain Jones would—he was devoted now. He had 
a morning and evening paper route and swept walks 
and tended furnaces in winter. Sometimes he helped 
the lamp lighter, getting up by five to do so. He did 
well in school, his mother coaching him, he was 
skipping grades so as to reach high school as soon 
as possible. Marian needed no coaching, she was a 
born blue stocking whereas Pat idled over lessons 
and cast her blue eyes on all pretties in sight. 

Martha was keenly disturbed when Jones planned 
to be an artist. 

“You will starve, honey,’^ she insisted, “mother 
will have to hem napkins and make salads until 
judgment day, if you go trying that.” 

“But Pm to be a great artist,” he insisted. 

“You can’t tell much as to that,” she warned. 

“Fll try it—if I’m not great. I’ll be something 
else.” 

“If a white soul counts, you ought to be great,” 
Martha praised, “and if brains count, Marian will 
run for the senate. If it is just beauty, Pat will be 
Queen of the May. I guess I know my own chil¬ 
dren as well as anybody.” 

She took great delight in their report cards. 
Every so often she called on'the teachers to tell them 


56 


UP AND COMING 


‘‘she had confidence in their methods, she used to 
teach herself back in Naples, and she knew a teacher 
saw a child at a closer and more revealing angle than 
did its parent. She was real glad the children 
proved satisfactory—if they did not, let her know.” 

Unconscious of the teacher’s pity, Martha would 
trudge home, clad in her outlandish clothes. Patri¬ 
cia objected to these visits. 

“You talk so loud and your nose is red,” she said. 

Jones gave his sister a cutting glance. “If she 
talks loud, anyone that listens will be the wiser for 
it,” he insisted. 

Marian said nothing. 

Martha flushed. “It is better for a little girl to 
have her mother talk to the teacher than to be in an 
orphan asylum,” yet she was ashamed the child’s 
criticism annoyed her. 

There was little dignity or reserve with family 
affairs. Things were discussed pro and con with 
no attempt at discretion. The children entered into 
vigorous debate as to whether it should be a roast 
of pork or a pot roast for Sunday dinner and added 
their opinions as to their father’s worthlessness with 
as much authority as did their mother. Mentally 
theirs was an adult life. 

When Jones invited his teacher. Miss Markham, 
to eat supper, a thrilling event, he experienced his 
first confusion at his mother’s gaucheries. 

When he told her Miss Markham was coming:. 
Martha was sweeping off snow from the steps, an 
old hat of his father’s on her tousled head, thick- 


UP AND COMING 


57 


boots and a woolen house dress completing the 
scarecrow effect. She was humming because she was 
happy. Marian had been one hundred in history 
and spelling, Pat had not complained at making the 
beds, her husband was sober and she had made an 
extra four dollars by an unexpected club luncheon— 
to say nothing of the broken foods they told her to 
take home. 

“Oh, that’s nice, child,” she said, “I’ll cook a 
bang up meal. The mayonnaise left from the lunch 
will help make a real tony salad. I want to have 
everything apple pie. I’ll wash my good napkins 
out tonight,” shaking her broom, “I guess that’s 
clear enough.” 

“I’ll do the rest,” Jones offered, “can we have ice 
cream, too?” 

“Yes sir, you can run down for it while I change 
plates. Let’s have a chicken fricassee—I guess she 
never ate one the way I can fix it.” 

“I wish father wasn’t going to be here,” added 
Jones. 

“He’ll spruce up and be polite, always is when 
there’s company. He likes a good supper, too. 
Don’t worry—he’ll be a credit. I’ll begin to talk 
him into it and maybe I’ll train Pat to wait on table.” 

“What dress will you wear?” 

“My brown silk—out of style but splendid mate¬ 
rial. Nobody knows what I look like, flying around 
the kitchen most of the time.” 

“I wish you’d fix your hair pompadour,” Jones 
began but he did not finish. Something told him it 


58 


UP AND COMING 


was too much to ask. Pat’s beauty and his father’s 
company veneer must suffice for the family culture. 

Miss Markham enjoyed the supper and was 
amused by the family. It proved one of those deadly 
domestic affairs where the children betray all the 
household economies. She thought Mr. Bynight 
quite handsome, his wife an excellent cook but 
dowdy and the children were dears. 

Jones went for the ice cream as planned and 
claimed the largest portion “because I chased it” 
and after supper Martha did the dishes in order to let 
the children profit by Miss Markham’s talk on her 
trip to Europe. 

“Jones will tell me about it afterwards,” she 
apologized, “there’s a few things I must see to. 
Before I forget, could you use a bunch of lovely 
celery? A huckster went through here today and 
three bunches fell off his cart—I called but he never 
heard me, so it isn’t stealing to keep ’em. They 
would have frozen in the street. Won’t you take 
one along?” 

Jones was embarrassed. To interrupt a talk on 
Europe by the gift of strayed celery! He was glad 
when Miss Markham graciously declined and the 
door closed on his mother and the table of dirty 
dishes. Neither was her impulsive praise of him¬ 
self to his liking. He could not forget her naive 
description of the kitchen cabinet he had bought 
for a quarter off a peddler, repainted and put in his 
room to serve as both bookcase and dresser, how 
“elegant the flour bin was for soiled clothes and the 


UP AND COMING 


59 


spice closets for his school lessons/^ It took a boy to 
think up things. And Miss Markham's polite agree¬ 
ment. 

After the teacher left, Bynight mimicked her, al¬ 
though he had been a model of flattering politeness 
in her presence. Jones resented this, as well. He 
did not understand it was not malicious fun but his 
father’s disguised envy of the woman’s breeding, 
an unworthy method of regretting his own lack of 
culture. 

A great event happened when Jones was twelve 
years old. Through one of Martha’s friends, and 
patroness as well, he was suggested as an errand 
boy during spare time at the famous art store of 
Hannibal Hamlin and Son, a store founded for half 
a century and dealing in pictures, statuary, antiques 
and bronzes, oriental wares. 

The peculiar feature of the establishment was the 
fact that the owner and proprietor, son of the 
founder, was a blind man yet counted authority as 
to his stock, a man of integrity and unquestioned 
ability. Blind from childhood, he was endowed 
with the ability to tell from his finger tips, he de¬ 
clared, as to the quality of a vase, the technique of 
a painting or the value of a human being. 

With neither cane nor guide, he would go through 
the four floors of his store, stopping to chat, with 
clerks and customers, fingering new goods and ap¬ 
praising them deciding on the prices for antiques, 
“enjoying himself” as his friends declared. He was 
a majestic man, middle aged, with snowy white hair 


6 o 


UP AND COMING 


and dark, vacant eyes unshaded by glasses. His 
hands were long and slender, shell pink of color. 
He would put a hand on one’s arm as he talked. 

'*1 can see them,” he would assert. And his judg¬ 
ments were correct. Living in a great mansion 
next door to the Dunlevys, Hamlin entered into the 
social and civic life of the city with unusual spirit. 
Yet no detail of his business escaped him. No one 
was hired, no matter what the capacity, but what Mr. 
Hamlin “saw them.” 

So when Jones, shaking in his boots at being in 
this vast, beautiful shop, stood before him, Hamlin 
rested one hand on Jones’ arm as he said: 

“From four to six each afternoon, from eight 
until six on Saturdays. And you like to do er¬ 
rands?” 

“Yes, sir,” chattered Jones. 

“This is a big store—we have a great many won¬ 
derful things to sell. Sometimes a jade goddess no 
bigger than two fingers costs a fortune, a brocade 
a thousand years old brings many hundreds of dol¬ 
lars. We sometimes show panoramas which take 
the length of our art gallery. We must have people 
working for us who like both our ways and our 
wares. Grow up with the business and become one 
of us. We only employ those kind of people. When 
we discover they are not our sort, we let them go. 
We have no time to scold, we have too many things 
deserving of praise ... all right, young Bynight, 
you can report tomorrow.” 

He had “seen” Jones. 



UP AND COMING 


6 i 


Jones tore home to tell his mother. She was at a 
neighbor’s house, the woman had died and her rela¬ 
tions had written to ask that her things be packed 
up and forwarded. The neighbors had come to 
Martha. “Mis’ Bynight knows how to pack” they 
said. 

Martha had the few poor things together when 
Jones came in. 

“That’s mighty fine news,” she said, “you may 
own the store some day—at any rate, you’re step¬ 
ping pretty wide and handsome.” 

Jones went home to rejoice all by himself. To 
work in the store of all stores, surrounded by the 
beautiful, feast his eyes on pictures and embroid¬ 
eries and be entrusted with some lesser object—such 
as a package of wall fasteners! What new worlds 
were opening for him. 

When Marian came in, Jones told her. 

“My, I’m glad,” she confessed, “it is different 
from being in a grocery store—I wonder where 
you’ll end up with such a start as this?” 

“Where will you end up?” asked Jones generously. 

“I shall teach,” was Marian’s prim decision, 
“never be like mother.” 

Jones was silent, he could not criticize his idol. 
Patricia had added herself to the group. 

“I shall go on the stage, ride bareback or swing 
off a trapeze—anything but go to college,” was her 
challenge. 

“She is only a baby,” Jones told Marian mag¬ 
nanimously. 


62 


UP AND COMING 


“But a troub-le-some one,” the older little girl 
answered. 

His father heard the news without satisfaction. 
“That’s right, get ahead of your folks and then be 
ashamed of ’em,” he declared, “that is the way it 
goes. Your ma is bent on it. Going to have you all 
lily fingered ladies and gentlemen. I don’t think it’s 
a good plan, I’ve a notion to move you all onto a 
farm and let you sweat a while. Well, if you break 
anything over to that art store, you can pay for it. 
Remember that. Working in such a swell place 
isn’t all beer and skittles. I’d rather work in a 
butcher shop—if you drop anything there, all you 
got to do is wash off the sawdust and lay it back 
on the block.” 

Jones felt nauseated of soul—he realized life was 
complex. Yet he felt almost culpable for not want¬ 
ing to be in the butcher shop environment. 

By dint of hard work on the part of Jones and his 
mother with Hannibal Hamlin securing a scholar¬ 
ship for his favorite clerk, 1903 found Jones enter¬ 
ing college, a hundred miles distant. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Jones’ going to college was like a mosaic, since 
to do so comprised intricate and various efforts, 
sacrifices, prayers, friendly philanthropies—whatnot. 
Everything had been bent to that one purpose as 
far as Martha was concerned. Blind to her own 
hardships, her husband’s lack of interest, the girls’ 
problems, Martha toiled and had faith that this was 
to be. 

In the intervening years had come many trials and 
few rewards. A friction had developed between 
Martha and her daughters, offset to a degree by 
Jones’ sympathy. 

Patricia was hopelessly mundane in her mother’s 
eves. With taste for neither school nor housework, 
she developed a love of the fleshpots. To obtain 
the prettiest clothes and have the best time comprised 
her ambitions. She flirted as naturally as Marian 
studied, accepting life as a never ending frolic. 
Petted by her father and shielded by her admiring 
brother, Patricia defied her mother, shirking her 
share of tasks. She was affectionate but shallow, 
superficially clever and so lovely to look upon that 
one forgave her any offense. 

Martha “bore with her’’ in old fashioned jargon, 

63 


64 


UP AND COMING 


she feared Patricia would bring tragedy upon her 
butterfly self. Yet Patricia was easier to live with 
than Marian. Marian was coldly aloof, superior, 
she had a way of putting people in their places, 
building up a reserve impossible to overcome. She 
was a tall, sweetfaced girl with a natural good 
taste. She spent one-third of the time Patricia used 
in dressing her brown hair. Patricia’s blond curls 
were waved and frizzed while Marian’s was a 
smooth, glossy coiffure at the nape of her white 
neck. Patricia wore blue ribbons and a pink dress, 
imitation jewelry, slippers with grownup heels, as 
Martha called them, a little makeup as well. There 
was an amusing sophistication. She had a habit of 
exaggerating. Her family were poor, no denying 
that, but they had been rich, she informed her school¬ 
mates and in Europe the Bynights were extremely 
well connected. She hinted of a possible inheritance 
—a lovely estate in North Devon—there was no 
telling but what they might go abroad to live. 

Patricia boasted of more beaux for her age than 
was wholesome. She counted on their presents with 
a shrewdness which delighted her father and dis¬ 
pleased her mother. She went to all school events 
with some cavalier whereas Marian went with Jones 
or alone. Patricia regarded her family as beneath 
her, excepting Jones. Jones was to be her salvation. 
As soon as he made his fortune he would give Patri¬ 
cia the proper setting. Her attitude as a child was: 
“If I can’t have the best things. I’ll take second best 
but I must have something.” She could always find 



UP AND COMING 


65 


a new angle for a feather to Jones’ delight. He 
admired his sisters. They did no wrong in his eyes. 
He thought Patricia beautiful and talented, he 
wished his mother would not scold because she 
begged for a piano and pouted when asked to dust. 

For all Patricia’s vivacious charm, elastic tales 
of family wealth, it was Marian who won people’s 
esteem. The neighborhood had it that Marian was 
“elegant” and Patricia was “swell” and young Jones 
“a wonder.” 

Marian’s was a dignity beyond her years. She 
resembled her mother when she had been a girl. 
Marian refused to quarrel with Pat, she merely dis¬ 
approved of her. Her real world was the world 
of books and in this she and her brother met on equal 
ground. 

Jones became man of the family long before he 
was a college freshman. His father deferred to him 
whereas once he bullied. Jones was consulted be¬ 
fore anything was bought, he decided whether or 
not to raise their tenants’ rent, what would be the 
right Easter hat for Patricia. When he spoke it was 
with authority, even his mother deferred to his 
wishes although Jones usually endorsed what he 
knew his mother wished. 

If Patricia lived by frivolity and admiration and 
Marian dreamed among her books, young Jones 
found reality to a great extent. He was both blessed 
and burdened with a family. He longed to be a 
sculptor yet he must complete a practical education, 
provide for his sisters. 


6 


66 


UP AND COMING 


The aesthetic suroundings of the Hamlin store 
soothed and temporarily satisfied his longing. He 
did well in their employ. From errand boy to cash 
boy during summer vacation, from cash boy to half 
time clerk during high school days and then whole 
time clerk in the oriental department during spare 
time, Jones was learning the stock, watching the 
buyers and their methods, the psychology of selling 
and obtaining a training equal only to the training 
Hamlin himself had received. 

The store became his religion, his mother a 
strayed goddess lodged in the little Elm street home. 
He adored each beautiful, glowing object, revelled in 
the pictures, he criticized the pictures to himself. 
Sometimes Mr. Hamlin would go about the store 
with young Bynight asking his opinions, sometimes 
praising, sometimes contradicting his answers. 

Once, during a luncheon hour, Jones sold a cop¬ 
per samovar, a sale amounting to sixty dollars. 
When Hamlin heard of it, he gave Jones a five dol¬ 
lar bonus. 

“How did you come to sell it?” he asked, his 
blind eyes staring over Jones’ head. 

“It looked as if it would belong in her sort of 
parlor,” the boy said almost shamedly, “I didn’t 
really show her anything else.” 

“What will you do with that money?” 

“Put half in the bank, give half to mother,” was 
his quick reply. 

“You’ve a good mother, haven’t you?” he ques¬ 
tioned. 


UP AND COMING 


67 


‘'I guess I have,” Jones answered, he could hardly 
wait until he reached home to tell of his good for¬ 
tune. 

When Jones finished high school, second in his 
class, Plamlin had sent to ask if he cared to go 
through college. 

“If you will work—I’ll do the rest,” was his 
promise, “and what do you intend doing—after 
you’ve lived down your diploma?” 

Jones told of his desire to be a sculptor—only his 
family would need his immediate assistance. 

Hamlin made little comment. He advised Jones 
to plan on entering the university that autumn, he 
would have a place in the store during all his vaca¬ 
tions. He could wait on table to pay for his board, 
no doubt, or find other odd jobs, there were a num¬ 
ber of things a chap could do if he was at all in¬ 
clined. 

So Jones made ready. Martha had not been able 
to save but at least she was not in debt. Her hus¬ 
band had spasmodic fits of working, selling cheap 
jewelry, soliciting for washing machines, distribut¬ 
ing handbills! But he never engaged in any con¬ 
centrated line of action. He talked of the “income” 
from the other half of their house as if it was suffi¬ 
cient to meet all demands. Sometimes Martha told 
herself she was blessed in being head of the family, 
to have depended on her husband’s miserliness, had 
he been self supporting, would have been even less 
endurable. 

She knew no pride where her children were con- 


68 


UP AND COMING 


cerned, working at anything which offered. Some¬ 
times she acted as caretaker for houses when people 
went away, she had a circle of pseudo-friends and 
benefactors who supplied her with clothes. In this 
way they were all better dressed than if she had been 
obliged to purchase them. She was thankful for old 
furniture as well. Her garden yielded vegetables for 
the table and her married half sister sent a barrel of 
apples and one of potatoes each fall. When her 
father died, she received eight hundred dollars and 
with this she put some improvements into the double 
house and raised the rent accordingly. Martha 
managed! But there was no way to help Jones 
through college. 

This did not worry Jones. He had saved seventy 
dollars, he would write essays and take all the money 
prizes, he said this as confidently as if he planned to 
board a train. It would be the only way his mother 
and the girls could come visit him. Hitherto, he had 
given his mother almost all of his wages. He realized 
the stoppage would mean retrenchment, still, she 
urged his going. It was reaching her long dreamed 
of goal. 

When Jones reached the university he found the 
way was not difficult. He knew no shirking from 
work, he was of splendid mental calibre. Waiting 
on table paid for his board as Mr. Hamlin suggested. 
Pumping the chapel organ and sweeping dormitories 
paid for his room. His clothes would do. He used 
some money for fees and books, his scholarship 
would be renewed if his marks merited it. There 


UP AND COMING 


69 


were three ^‘plum prizes” as he wrote home. He 
must capture all of them. Two were for twenty- 
five dollars each, the essay subjects being Spinoza 
and Macaulay, one was for a hundred and fifty dol¬ 
lars, the subject to be original. 

He wrote his mother to plan on coming to see him 
at Thanksgiving. He would surely win the first 
of the prizes. He wrote dutiful weekly accounts of 
happenings to Mr. Hamlin but remained oblivious 
to his associates. They labelled him a “poverty 
shark, a grind” and let him alone. A fraternity was 
beyond his pocketbook, so were the monthly 
hops. He did not realize that to know how to play 
was a greater art than to know how to work, that 
former art being one of the greatest benefits a uni¬ 
versity experience can bestow. 

Only his professors delighted in him. They often 
forgot that their duty was to the man of dead level 
intelligence and not the most brilliant man in the 
class room. They talked up to Jones which also 
removed him from the fellowship of his classmates. 

He was shy regarding girls, never attending social 
affairs and coming in contact with them but rarely. 
Once, when a well meaning professor asked him to 
tea and his three daughters presented themselves as 
entertainers, Jones’ confusion was so great the pro¬ 
fessor took pity upon him and steered him into his 
study to converse on the soothing topic of beetles 
while the girls giggled in the offing over his clumsy 
manners. 

Jones won the prize for his essay on Macaulay. 


70 


UP AND COMING 


So Martha spent Thanksgiving with him. The 
family demurred at her going, no one could cook 
as good a dinner as Martha and she also lost the 
chance to serve a Thanksgiving eve supper party. 
Her husband pronounced it '‘more foolishness” al¬ 
though he boasted to his cronies about “my son in 
college.” 

But Martha in a pumpkin colored dress and an 
old golf cape, a basket of homemade goodies for 
her boy, boarded the train for the first time away 
from Cornwall since her marriage. 

The hardships of her married life were as nothing 
in comparison with this joy. Not only was she 
visiting her son at his college, but he was paying 
expenses by having taken an essay prize! Could 
any hero be greater? She was even tolerant of her 
husband as the train jolted her away from her nar¬ 
rowed environment, she planned to buy Pat a belt 
and Marian a little book, she was certain she could 
manage it. How pleased Jones would be when he 
saw the Thanksgiving feast—even prize winners 
do not scorn roasted chicken and mince pie. 

When Jones introduced his mother to the faculty 
members, he was conscious of a sense of shame. 
In superficial manner he mentally criticized her dress, 
bromidic remarks. He could not tell an indifferent 
world the intimate story of her greater mother 
heart and broad visioned brain. That it was because 
she did the drudgery that he would be the savant! 

True, Jones was waiting on table and sweeping 
floors, denied social activities but Jones was different 


UP AND COMING 


71 


from his mother in some miraculous fashion just 
as Martha had been different from Sophia who had 
suffered by Martha’s superiority. 

It was the American way of things, Jones told 
himself as he scuttled Martha to his room to “ap¬ 
preciate her all alone, without unfair contrasts” as 
he reasoned. The faculty had been courteous, smil¬ 
ing at her attempted bon mots and answering her 
inquiries. They appreciated young Bynight’s position. 

Martha told Jones he had changed, he had a 
“splendid air about him—she knew Mr. Hamlin 
would be delighted.” She hoped he would win the 
prize for the Spinoza essay, he could come home 
for Christmas and work in the store for ten days, 
it would more than pay him. And if he should win 
the hundred and fifty dollar prize—dearie me- 

“I’ll go west for the summer, earn my way some¬ 
how,” he interrupted. “I want to see the painted 
desert.” 

Martha was aghast. She had expected him to be 
in her charge during the summer. But she made 
no protest, she was too exalted and somewhat awed 
to have done so. Besides, she became cursed with 
an unromantic malady—an ulcerated tooth which 
ruined her visit. It also got on Jones’ nerves. 
Martha seemed such a pitiful, nervous faced little 
soul with a swollen right jaw and weary eyes, trying 
hard not to have him irritated by her distress. She 
had refused to see a dentist. 

“I’ve gone through worse times than this,” she 
told him, “dear me, when Marian was a baby and 



72 


UP AND COMING 


you just a toddler, I had two such teeth—and the 
store to wait oh, besides. Here I can lay down and 
rest, look at my dear boy. Let’s hear what you’ve 
written about Spinoza—is that the way to say it? 
I’ll forget any toothache—don’t you worry.” 

So Jones read his first draft with Martha applaud¬ 
ing, holding a warm flannel to her cheek. Then 
Jones had to go wait table. Martha and he were 
to picnic lunch in his room afterwards. While he 
was away, Martha, toothache or no toothache, began 
to put his room in order. It had worried her from 
the moment she had seen it. She beat the rug, 
regardless of the holiday and amused spectators, 
cleaned the windows and dusted the shabby furnish¬ 
ings, pausing to look over the second hand text 
books and peek at his halfway prepared lessons. 
She cleaned that room in the same reverent spirit 
one would clean a temple, it was consecrated to her 
mind. It typified her goal—all she had worked 
for, hoped might come to pass. She forgot her 
toothache and the untidiness of her appearance. 

Jones was pleased yet dismayed, when he found 
what she had done; he thanked her earnestly and 
then ate up the greater share of the lunch, telling 
of his future plans! 

Martha slept in a hotel that night. The next 
day, they walked and talked together and at sunset, 
Jones put her on the train, glad she had gone. He 
hated himself for his embarrassment for surely his 
mother was a ‘‘workman who needeth not to be 
ashamed 1” 


UP AND COMING 


73 


Poor muddled Jones, he pledged himself he would 
never marry but give this mother the allegiance and 
love she deserved, he would become so rich and 
famous that Madame Grundy would pay her respect, 
grudging as it might be. He felt absurdly guilty. 

He finished the Spinoza essay while visualizing 
Martha’s devoted shabby self. He must repay, re¬ 
pay, repay! 


CHAPTER IX 


Jones won the Spinoza prize, but when word 
came the hundred and fifty dollars was to be awarded 
to one Jones Bynight for his essay on Ideals, 
Patricia summed up the situation by her exclama¬ 
tion of: 

“All hail the racket! We may wear silk founda¬ 
tions yet 

In June, Hamlin arranged for Jones’ trip to Ari¬ 
zona. He sent him as semi-valet, semi-secretary to 
a party of artists going out to sketch. For nine, 
never-to-be-forgotten weeks, Jones lived in the 
desert, became imbued with the spirit of freedom 
realizing dimly his asocial drifting, that he must 
renounce a creative career because of his fam¬ 
ily’s financial stress. These realizations had their 
compensations. Living on top of the oldest civiliza¬ 
tion in the world—the painted desert—visions were 
bound to come. When he lay down to sleep on 
the very brink of eternity, wonderful thought chil¬ 
dren were born of that crumbled wisdom and his 
crude imagination. He planned for an art magazine 
which should make America stand for something 
else in the eyes of critics other than a nation pro¬ 
ductive of fountain pens and breakfast foods. He 
planned for a home of his own, Marian’s education, 

74 


UP AND COMING 


75 


Pat’s happiness, he, too, felt tolerant of his father, 
laughed tenderly at his false sense of pride regard¬ 
ing his mother. He was given a sense of humor. 

Yet when he returned, the house seemed stuffy, 
his mother worn and frail. Patricia’s appearance 
was overdone and Marian on the road to being a 
bookworm. He regarded his father as a failure, 
deserving of little consideration. It was a relief to 
return to college, nor did he come home until the 
following June. Then he set to work at the store, 
helping Marian get off to a woman’s college that 
fall. He knew Marian would want to remain away, 
not risk comparisons but stay aloof until she was 
in a position to help her family, not criticize them. 

Pat refused to consider college. Martha’s present 
worry was that she would be an actress. Her 
father said she was too pretty not to be married. 
Jones reserved decision. 

'‘When you want things,” he ordered, “tell me. 
I’ll always get them if I can and if I can’t, be 
patient. But don’t plague mother. Think of all she 
has done. Here is Marian gone—only father and 
you left. Poor dad, he’ll never get a second wind. 
It will do you good to be denied.” 

“I’m so tired of being poor,” Pat protested, “I 
haven’t booky brains. Mother is so narrow—she 
cries if I contradict her. She has worked so hard 
and been so disappointed in dad she can’t laugh at 
anything. Of course she’s salt of the earth—but 
trying. You’re away and the horrid little jars don’t 
affect you. Besides, you’re the favorite.” 


76 


UP AND COMING 


“Everyone has a time of sacrifice/’ her told her 
soberly, “even old China had its day when all re¬ 
trenched. Jade panels were replaced by plain bamboo 
and the son of heaven wore but linen. Being poor 
will never hurt you.” 

This meant nothing to Pat when she wanted a 
gay plaid dress and her mother said: “Pat sleeps 
late, she’s afraid her sleep will be frosted if she 
gets up any earlier.” 

“We can’t do just as she says,” she insisted, “we 
are up and coming but her day is done. If it sounds 
cruel. I’m sorry but it is the truth—we were brought 
up to tell the truth, kindly remember.” 

Up and coming! Jones re-echoed the phrase. 
How exactly had his sister voiced the situation in 
her careless fashion. He recalled stories of his 
thrifty German grandmother, his cockney grand¬ 
father, the marriage in the lion’s cage! His sisters 
and he were the third generation—who could say 
to what heights they would attain? If they failed 
to reach the heights, their children would—the rise 
was inevitable, possibly delayed for a generation or 
so. His mother, static and orthodox, was the real 
“yeast” of the situation. Martha-in-the-middle 
bridging the old and new. In reality, Martha was 
suffering the birth pangs of the Bynight aristocracy! 

Jones was reverent when next he saw her, she 
was pathetically flattered—such a contrast to Mar¬ 
ian’s aloofness or Pat’s impertinence. 


UP AND COMING 


77 


The Easter recess before Jones’ graduation 
still found the family in the double house with 
Martha-in-the-middle keeping the domestic machin¬ 
ery moving. 

The house interiors showed a decided change in 
atmosphere. Marian, now a college junior, seldom 
home due to an opportunity to coach during vaca¬ 
tions, had brought this about somewhat. But it 
was Jones who furnished the money. If anyone 
wished something contrary to Martha’s policies, it 
was Jones who won the day. 

^‘Mother will do anything Jones wants her to,” 
complained the girls. 

“She can’t say no to the boy,” grumbled his 
father. 

The furniture was now a cheap grade of mission 
variety. The pictures Martha had cherished were 
missing and save for a good print or engraving 
nothing took their place on the buff tinted walls. 
There were not enough cases to hold the shabby 
books so they overflowed onto the tables. Braided 
rugs and newly painted floors had supplanted the 
body brussels. Scrim curtains instead of ancient 
and ornate affairs were at the windows and even 
glass candlesticks with silk shades rested on the small 
sideboard. But no one had changed Mother’s room, 
it was regarded as foreign territory. 

“She likes old things,” Jones argued, “she doesn’t 
mind our changing everything else. When we move 
from here, we’ll furnish her room completely. But 
let’s don’t disturb her now.” 


78 


UP AND COMING 


When the children clubbed together to wire the 
house with electricity, Martha protested the added 
expense of doing her room. 

“Jones’ student lamp gives the soft light I need,” 
she declared. “Besides, I like using it, he studied 
with it so long. I’d feel as if I had parted with 
an old friend. As long as I’m the one to clean it, 
I think it might be allowed to stay.” 

Patricia was now proud to have her friends call, 
seeing that her parents obediently retired at the 
sound of the bell. Yet she had made no effort to 
bring this to pass. 

“Everyone needs an audience,” she defended when 
Marian accused her for lacking interest, “I’m the 
audience. You two supply the acts. Of course I 
like the new things but I’m no grubber. The more 
you study, the less sense of humor you seem to have, 
sister mine. I wouldn’t wear glasses like yours if 
I had to be an illiterate! It is all right for Jones 
but never for a girl. I’ll do something someday 
that will make you all proud. Wait until I marry 
my millionaire and put you on easy street—I just 
have to spend all my time now in bringing that to 
pass.” 

Martha sighed and lifted her eyebrows whenever 
Pat’s name was mentioned, she seemed an alien, 
this beautiful girl who was dawdling through high 
school only because she was leading lady in most 
of the plays. 

The Bynights had a polylot collection of friends 
some of them decidedly de trop these days. There 


UP AND COMING 


79 


were the old neighbors, goodhearted, working people 
who had lived about the grocery store. They came 
to see Martha who welcomed them even though her 
children made them feel ill at ease. There were 
occasional visitors from Naples, country folk who 
remembered Martha and considered she had done 
“real well” with two children in college and another 
too pretty to be real and a husband, who although 
an idler was at least submissive and gave Martha 
full sway. 

Then there were the present day neighbors, rather 
envious, inquisitve folks who enjoyed the details of 
Jones’ college life and commented on Pat’s beaux. 
Marian seemed to win approval, she was so quiet in 
manner, neither attracting nor antagonizing. Be¬ 
sides these, were the individual friends. Hannibal 
Hamlin, Jones’ patron, favorite ex-teachers of both 
Marian and Jones, rich persons who employed Mar¬ 
tha and recognized her worth, the minister who de- 
deplored the tendency of the young Bynights to be 
anything but orthodox. There was the brusque 
family doctor, a source of comfort and confession 
during dark days, any number of interesting per¬ 
sonalities were drawn to this busy, struggling woman 
determined her children should reap her reward. 

Her husband knew “characters” so Martha said, 
no-good idlers who loafed while someone else worked 
to keep them. But he seldom brought them to the 
house, or if he did they went to the back where 
there was a shed with chairs. 

The children made it plain that since their father 


8o 


UP AND COMING 


had ^‘laid down on his job” to say nothing of having 
tyrannized in early days, he was to have nothing 
to say about household affairs. Nor was he to 
clutter up the home with his kind. 

Bynight had become a silent, pale faced man these 
last years, regarding Martha with a fearful admira¬ 
tion. He treated her with respect since he knew she 
had an ardent champion in the person of her son. 
Martha had developed a shrewish tendency where 
her husband was concerned, she asked nothing of 
him but she showed him no interest, he was merely 
her husband, a veritable old man of the sea. He 
was uncomfortable in the family life, he could 
not comprehend the things they were attempting. 
So he kept his opinions to himself or else mumbled 
them to his companions. His three meals, beer 
money, a pipe and a mongrel dog at his heels were 
his essentials. The former swashbuckling Bynight 
had completely vanished. With moody eyes he 
watched his family climb. Whenever he asked Mar¬ 
tha for money he adopted an apologetic air. When¬ 
ever he made money at some odd job or in a card 
game, he became amusingly dignified and secretive. 
He disapproved of the family excepting Patricia. 
He fully expected she would marry the millionaire 
of which she glibly chattered. 


CHAPTER X 


Marian was not home for this Easter vacation 
but Jones arrived ahead of the expected time, being 
more than caught up with his classes. He was to 
work at the store during his stay and he had been 
keen to be in time for a loan exhibit of statuary. 

*^Your father isn’t well,” was his mother’s greet¬ 
ing, “he sleeps most of the time. I’m glad you’ve 
come. Patricia is such a will o’ the wisp. You look 
splendid—my, it’s good to see you.” 

Despite the illness, Martha had his room spotless 
and had cooked his favorite dishes. 

“I hate to have you at the store,” she objected, 
“I’ll only get a glimpse of you. Still, you’ll be 
sleeping under my roof and eating my meals and 
that means a lot. Your father is on the lounge in 
the dining room. I can’t get him to bed, he’s like 
a fretful child. Somehow he makes me feel sorry. 
Patricia is out with Owen Davis, her latest affair. 
I’m sure I don’t know where she will fetch up— 
just imagine, she is wearing as few clothes as pos¬ 
sible so as to look slinky. Don’t you call that down¬ 
right wicked? Even worse than face paint.” 

Bustling around while she helped him unpack, 
Martha unburdened her mind of the household 

8i 


6 


82 


UP AND COMING 


details. The roof leaked, she had mended it herself 
with tar paper. Patricia had bought a shell pink 
chiffon dress, one of those things capable of pre¬ 
serving every illusion woman ever forced man to 
believe. She had worn it to interview the manager 
of the local stock company in hopes of getting taken 
on—wasn’t that distressing? It seems the manager 
offered to the most popular girl a week as leading 
woman, during which the less fortunate flappers 
would give box parties and have teas behind the 
stage, so on I Patricia had won the position. Mar¬ 
tha was proud in spite of herself. But this Owen 
Davis, a spoiled prig of twenty-one with entirely 
too much pin money, persuaded her not to accept. 
Said he could not bear to see her behind the vulgar 
footlights and Patricia had weakly succumbed to 
his wishes. As long as she had gotten the position, 
Martha really wanted her to accept—it would have 
paid for the foolish dress and perhaps disillusioned 
her as to a stage career. But one could never count 
on Patricia. 

Jones sat on the edge of his bed and made his 
mother occupy the one easy chair. In turn, he told 
the intimate details of his life which a letter cannot 
convey. For hours these two, blissfully unconscious 
of the world without, mutually praised and cheered. 

‘T feel young again,” Martha said as the clock 
warned her to stop, ‘T guess your dad is awake, 
maybe he’s hungry. I’ve got broth on for him.” 

“You’re the best mother in the world,” Jones 
kissed her, “wait until I repay you.” 


UP AND COMING 


83 


“You have now,” she stroked his hair fondly, 
“you give me the big reason to live and keep on 
struggling.” 

“As you give me,” he reminded. 

“Your father, the girls, the tenants, the work— 
it all seems so inconsequential when I think of your 
future. It is worth everything to have such a son. 
How you’ve come on,” she frowned as if remember¬ 
ing something unpleasant. 

“What is troubling?” he demanded, “I’ll go over 
the roof myself, make father go to bed and tell the 
tenants they must mend their own broken panes. 
Any more jobs for a struggling student?” His keen 
gray eyes studied her face. He was noting that she 
stooped and her hair had grayed while her eyes 
had a tired fierceness except when she smiled. She 
wore an unbecoming brown wool thing, an apron 
shielding the skirt. Her shoes were old, one of the 
laces had broken and been roughly tied. She was 
apt to scuff her feet when she walked and her wed¬ 
ding ring, now broad and out of fashion, was 
scratched, it emphasized the roughness of her hands. 

He went on: “I think we are out of the woods, 
don’t you? It’s been tough sledding but you never 
faltered. I’ll be finished in June and then watch 
me. Two years at the store and then to Paris to 
study. I’ll take you with me for my mentor and 
inspiration. Pat will be married and Marian teach¬ 
ing, we’ll leave father to look after the pantry shelves. 
But first, we must move into better but smaller quar¬ 
ters. Someday I’m going to build a wood lodge 


84 


UP AND COMING 


just outside of town and you’ll preside over it, your 
hair will be silvery then and you’ll wear soft lavender 
gowns-” 

She held up her hands in protest, flushing hap¬ 
pily. ^‘Dear me, you are the dreamer! I guess I’ll 
be content if you ever get to Paris. It seems to me 
I’ve a lot to be glad of now. You never plan on 
being married,” she hesitated a trifle, “you’re a her¬ 
mit. Everyone mentions it. Don’t you know girls 
or don’t you want to know them?” 

“I don’t want to,” he answered truthfully, “I 
never think of it—I haven’t time. I leave that for 
fellows with money. Of course I like nice girls 
but there’s lots of time to become interested in any 
one of them. I don’t believe in early marriages— 
look at yourself—wouldn’t you have done better to 
have waited?” 

Her eyes were black with unexplainable emotion. 
“I wanted you,” she told him, “so I don’t regret it. 
Only sometimes I’m so tired from work that it 
frightens me. It makes me dull of brain—I’m not 
up to you children and I feel awkward with your 
friends. I’m out of step—but as long as you are 
in it, I shouldn’t mind. I’m more worried about 
your father at the present—I don’t like the way he 
looks. I know he was not kind or satisfactory— 
I’ve not forgotten—^but he is our father and maybe 
there is some excuse we haven’t figured out. Last 
night when he moaned in his sleep, I wondered if 
the way his folks struggled to come up in the world 
hadn’t left him sort of helpless, he had to have 



UP AND COMING 


85 


everything done for him. He just held the place 
they made so as to give you children a good jump¬ 
ing up spot. Perhaps that’s foolish—but it’s worth 
thinking of when we are cross with him. I think 
I hear him stirring now,” she went downstairs, Jones 
following. 

He found his father a tired child, pathetically 
docile. Jones sent for a doctor who told them he was 
puzzled as to his patient’s condition, he advised them 
not to be startled at what might happen. They 
debated sending for Marian. 

But she would be of no help, even if death came, 
it would be an additional expense and would seem 
a mere conventional detail, as it would to dress in 
mourning or indulge in an elaborate funeral. 

‘Tf this is to be I’m glad it was your vacation 
time,” Martha said, ‘'it won’t break into lessons.” 

Oddly, this jarred on the boy. Removed as he 
was from his father’s sphere, he disapproved of 
slavish interest which begrudged even death’s appear¬ 
ance at any save a convenient time. His mother’s 
love was both wonderful and terrible. 

On Easter Sunday Bynight died. He slept away 
with Martha beside him. The night before he had 
said unexpectedly: 

“Am I going to die?” 

“Course not,” Martha answered promptly. 

“You’re wrong for once, mother,” his restless 
eyes searching the room, “it is midnight, ain’t it?” 

“Just about.” 

“Children home?” 


86 


UP AND COMING 


She nodded. “Do you want them?*^ 

“It’s not worth waking them.” 

“Jones is in the parlor—he thought you might 
like him around.” 

“Then I’m pretty bad,” Bynight whispered. 

Martha called Jones. 

“Marian ain’t home, is she?” he asked as Jones 
came near. 

“She’s away at college, sir.” 

“So she is—my head’s not clear. I guess my 
brains never worked enough—well. I’m going to 
step out, boy. None of you will mind. I’ve been 
in the way long enough—” one clawlike hand reached 
for Martha’s, she was crying as she knelt beside 
him. 

“S-s-sh,” she said tenderly, “just try to rest.” 

“I’ll rest,” he promised, “but let me say it out. 
You’ve been fine to me, Martha, so you were to 
mother. It wasn’t easy either. I never understood 
until lately. There comes a time when it is too 
late, young Jones, remember that—be good to her. 
Never let anybody hurt her. And Pat will come out 
fine, only be patient—she ain’t enough like me to 
spoil her. Marian’s fine, too—all fine—Martha— 
pretty as spring she was—well, here’s where the old 
man steps aside—” He was not conscious again. 


CHAPTER XI 


They experienced relief after the funeral with its 
agony of curious callers. Jones was head of the 
family in name as well as position. Their attitude 
towards the dead man was one of gentle forgetful¬ 
ness. They held no grudges, likewise they cherished 
no regrets. Jones returned to college for his last 
term and Patricia wore her mourning with a coquet¬ 
tish air while Martha felt renewed courage. As her 
mother-in-law’s death seemed to release her from 
bondage, so did her husband’s passing. 

Martha and Patricia were to attend Jones’ gradua¬ 
tion, Jones providing the money. But when the 
day arrived, Hannibal Hamlin confronted Jones in 
their stead. 

A family crisis prevented the others from doing 
so. Two days previous Patricia eloped with Owen 
Davis whose mother joined with Martha in de¬ 
nouncing the young couple. Completely shocked and 
angered, Martha refused to make the journey. In 
a state of frantic disappointment, she appealed to 
Mr. Hamlin. Must her son, an honor man, be alone 
at his graduation? Whereupon Mr. Hamlin com¬ 
forted her by telling her he had intended being pres¬ 
ent all along, that she must remember life was noth- 

?7 


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ing if not three-fourths tolerance and one-fourth 
sense of humor. If her daughter had eloped, it 
was no criminal offense. Somewhat mollified, Mar¬ 
tha awaited Jones’ return. 

Little she dreamed that Jones experienced a cer¬ 
tain relief at her absence. He hardly acknowledged 
this to himself. As he watched Mr. Hamlin’s admir¬ 
able manner, his graceful savoir faire, the deference 
with which he was treated on all sides, Jones re¬ 
joiced that he had not been a witness to the gentle 
snubs which would have been his mother’s lot. 

She would have talked of homely, needful things, 
told discomforting details of his life, repeatedly re¬ 
ferred to her proud days as teacher of the Naples 
school, she would have waxed sentimental, certainly 
betraying the “being troubled with many things.” 
Careless of appearance and unblushingly proud of 
her son, Martha would have proved a sad contrast 
with these gentle people who met on equal grounds. 

Instead of listening to the sermon, Jones argued 
the situation. Why was there such a telling differ¬ 
ence? What comprised the line of demarcation? 
Would it ever be otherwise? Why should she who 
served and sacrificed suffer from surface compari¬ 
sons ? She who met each mental and physical 
demand because of her spiritual purpose and yet 
became an alien in the very world into which she 
had marshalled her children! 

He came to no conclusion. He was ashamed of 
his arguing. Paramount in his thoughts was the 
fact that it had been Martha’s wish that he so 


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89 


regard life as to consider her own sort impossible! 

Now that Patricia had eloped, he dreaded his 
mother’s torrent of abuse—although he did not 
blame her. But he must stand by both his sister 
and mother, meet whatever extra demands might 
be made. It was well he had finished college and 
was young and strong. He must not falter in his 
duty. Yet he was glad that he could introduce 
Hannibal Hamlin as his guest, that his precious, 
shabby mother was waiting at home. What a para¬ 
doxical cuss he was! 

Hamlin and his secretary left immediately after 
the exercises to go on to New York. 

'‘The Dunlevy firm has failed—and badly, too,” 
Hamlin explained, 'T want to see what can be done 
about it—my wife is a distant cousin, you may re¬ 
member. I won’t be back before Monday but I 
shall expect you to come to the house—say Tuesday 
evening at half after eight. I have something/ to talk 
over.” 

His hand rested on Jones’ eager arm, his blind 
eyes looking far beyond his head. What he was 
"seeing” only he could tell. What he had "seen” 
when Martha unceremoniously visited him was also 
his secret. 

"Remember, there is always less profit on good 
things than on cheap ones,” was his somewhat mys¬ 
terious remark, "your mother has chosen the good 
things—and must take the consequences. Until 
Tuesday—and you’ve done better than I ever 
expected.” 


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Jones tried to thank him, he was always self- 
conscious in his presence. Never before had Jones 
been asked to his house. He regarded it as an im¬ 
portant mission, flattered at the prospect. Momen¬ 
tarily, he forgot Patricia's elopement, his mother’s 
dismay. 

Martha had waited with pent up emotion until 
her son arrived. Unknowingly, she enjoyed the 
martyrdom of not attending his graduation. The 
neighbors’ sympathy and their disapproval of Pat 
had not been altogether unpleasing. 

Patricia had sent a messenger with a note, telling 
of her marriage and asking her mother’s forgive¬ 
ness. She and Owen were at the best hotel in town, 
Owen having dispatched a like missive to his mother, 
a snobbish widow with considerable means. 

Owen’s mother decided to have nothing to do with 
them. She was disgraced, she refused to see 
Patricia or have communication with her son. He 
would soon tire of Patricia and then she would take 
him back. He had an income of fifty dollars a 
month so they would not starve. She did not realize 
that it was due to her training that Owen could not 
earn a living. He had been plucked twice at college 
and then made a pretense at learning the electrical 
business which satisfied his mother. She had been 
on the point of starting him in his own shop. Ever 
since her husband’s death, Mrs. Davis had lived 
at a fashionable family hotel, whereby her son 
developed accordingly. 

Of course she blamed Patricia and of course 


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91 


Martha blamed Owen and his idle, selfish mother. 
Jones blamed no one but just wished to heaven they 
had been above board. This estranged Patricia and 
her mother. He knew beforehand the superior 
attitude Marian would assume. He must be the 
peacemaker, persuade Martha to see Patricia’s side, 
make Owen settle down and support his wife, stop 
Marian’s aloof disapproval and have a verbal combat 
with Mrs. Davis senior. After which, he would see 
what was to be done about his own career. He knew 
he had talent as an art student—but he also knew 
mere talent would not suffice. 

“I had a dream,” Martha began plaintively as soon 
as Jones was in the house, “on the night Pat ran 
off. A horrid nightmare such as I seldom have— 
your father was in it, he warned me and then Pat 
mocked me and I thought you were angry. You 
finally put me out of my own home. I woke with 
a start and went into her room but she had gone— 
silly, romantic girl. It was too late to stop them, 
they went to Canada and were married by some 
renegade parson. They came back and thought we 
would fall on their necks. He is a worthless creature 
—like his mother. People say she wants to remarry 
—a great, painted doll she is, playing cards and 
gossiping all day long—I’ve seen her. Of course she 
considers herself worlds above the Bynights—but 
not when she sees you! I went to Mr. Hamlin be¬ 
cause I was so upset, I just couldn’t come. (You 
can use the money to buy yourself a present from 
me, that’s one comfort.) Mr. Hamlin told me he 


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had planned on going all along. He thought me an 
excitable old woman, I guess. I suppose I bored 
him. Well, it isn’t every day that a woman’s 
daughter runs off with a wastling and her son gradu¬ 
ates from college. I’ve lived on the hope of your 
graduating ever since you were born,” she began to 
cry. 

Jones took her in his arms. He felt unfairly old, 
already the carefree college atmosphere was fading. 
‘Uome, we aren’t going to let this break us up, are 
we? Remember, we have each other.” 

‘‘You never know how much you have anyone 
these days,” she protested, “I’m afraid I’m bitter. 
Oh, Jones, I try to stay sweet at heart and be a 
gentlewoman but sometimes I’m so tired I’m noth¬ 
ing but an old scold, useful in the kitchen. It has 
been such a long time of waiting for your success 
and my Indian summer-” 

“Now it has come true,” he soothed, “here I am, 
six feet one and at your service. Ready to run a 
shoestring into a fortune as likely as not. I’ve 
always stayed with you mother, I always will. I 
can hardly call anyone my friend. I’m quite alone, 
too, if you will only think.” 

She smiled. “So you are, so you are,” she mur¬ 
mured contentedly. 

“But since we have each other, neither of us are 
alone yet we spend good time mooning and bemoan¬ 
ing what ? Suppose the world is a little topsy turvy— 
with little girls wearing lavendar sashes and grand¬ 
mothers having pink ribbons on their caps—it need 



UP AND COMING 


93 


not concern us. We have everything to look forward 
to—Marian is a fine girl, true blue. Pat is all right 
—remember what father said—that ‘she hasn’t 
enough of me in her to spoil her’—she is getting 
experience instead of a book education, I’m not sure 
but what it is quite as sensible. Marian will have to 
have her experience later. We all come to it. If 
this marriage ends in a crash, let Pat prove that she 
can emerge from it. Perhaps it won’t, we’ll forget 
hard feelings and use the money you had for your 
railroad fare to buy the young couple a present. If 
Owen’s mother does not like us—we won’t take to 
mourning over it. But my house is always my sisters’ 
—never shall a door close on them no matter what,” 
without realizing, it had become Jones’ house and 
Martha admiringly agreed. 

After Jones was alone, his thoughts turned to the 
promised interview with Mr. Hamlin. It served as 
antidote to Patricia’s marriage and his mother’s 
childish disappointment. 


CHAPTER XII 


From the vine hung loggia with its cactus urns 
flanking the entrance and making gay lines of color 
to the exquisite drawing room of the Hamlin man¬ 
sion there was nothing but treats to the eye, al¬ 
though the owner and designer of all this beauty 
was blind. 

So Jones thought as he waited to be admitted. He 
alone knew how the blind man was capable of ap¬ 
preciation, how he “saw” every blooming flower, 
every carved line of his figurines. His wife, a bon¬ 
bon type of beauty with a two fingered habit of 
shaking hands, was concerned with the cost of the 
place, that it furnished an ornate background for 
her charms and mundane entertainments. 

She was going out as Jones entered, a swirl of 
sea green tulle fairly dripping with crystal beads. 

“Good evening, Jones,” she said in her shrill, 
sweet voice, “Mr. Hamlin is waiting in the drawing 
room.” 

His secretary showed him within. The great 
room more than met his expectations. It stimulated 
and soothed, banished the uncomfortable home situa¬ 
tion. There were huge arm chairs in black, green 
and lavender brocades, rose taffeta hangings, an 

94 


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95 


elaborate marble mantel, golden rugs of Chinese 
workmanship covering the floor and a profusion of 
fussy Queen Anne needlework. 

The room contained Mr. Hamlin’s three favorite 
pictures. A portrait study of a wistful child in purple 
plaid against a cold green background hung over the 
mantel. At the opposite end of the room was Mrs. 
Hamlin’s gay self painted in a butter colored chiffon 
to match her hair, and the third was a marine, green 
waves breaking over bleak rocks and tossing up 
heavy spray. 

In a chair facing this last Mr. Hamlin was sitting 
reading some novel in the Braille method, the clumsy 
book slipping off his knees. 

*‘Sit near me,” he ordered, “I forgot an engage¬ 
ment with Mrs. Hamlin when I asked you to come. 
I must join her in an hour, so we’ll talk without in¬ 
troduction. What do you propose to do now you’ve 
finished college ?” 

“Study art,” Jones answered. 

The blind man shook his head. 

“I think I know all the struggle it will mean,” 
Jones added. 

“You must abandon any such idea,” he ordered 
just as he had told Jones where to sit. “You haven’t 
the personal freedom to permit such a career. Your 
mother and sisters—what of them? You may be 
a worker as well as a dreamer but that won’t help 
you out of the box. You must comfort yourself 
that all is art whether of the pot or pallette, forge 
ahead in the thing which will give you the best andl 


96 


UP AND COMING 


surest returns. You are no genius—I tell you so 
frankly. I’ve ‘seen’ in your work possibilities, kept 
closer track than you may have imagined. You 
have talent, rich appreciation, the ability to con¬ 
centrate but not the divine fire, that strange and 
wonderful something needed to make an artist. You 
would do acceptable work if you had endless study 
and encouragement but that would be all. Your duty 
lies in other directions. What of the store?” 

“It has been my inspiration,” he felt helpless to 

explain. He was looking at himself in an opposite 

mirror—what a huge, ungainly person! His was a 

dark, powerful face with the high, calm forehead 
\ 

offset by a shock of stubborn black hair. Somehow 
he felt a mongrel being as he sat listening to the 
blind man and staring at his own image. Even his 
hands which tapered artistically possessed practical 
artisan thumbs and their color was that mottled, 
healthy tint of a child’s. 

He hardly heard what Mr. Hamlin was saying. 
“It is always a question as to how far one dares in¬ 
terfere with another’s destiny—but in this case I 
shall chance it. Do you realize you are the one 
person I want to have the business when I’m 
through? Have you ever suspected it? It is a 
business I hoped to have my sons carry on but no 
children came to us. The Dunlevy’s children don’t 
interest me. I have watched your work from the 
day you began toting bundles until now when you’re 
fired with an unwise desire. You are needed to carry 
on the business—not immediately, perhaps, but ulti- 


UP AND COMING 


97 


mately you must be owner. Not only do you know 
the opportunity it affords but you know the store as 
no one else knows it—from the basement with its 
unpacked porcelains to the Puvis de Chavannes 
drawings on silk and our delicate Whistlers in the 
gallery. The man who directs that concern must 
have the soul of an artist and the brain of an artisan 
—you are the man. I, too, would have chosen to 
wield a brush”: he tapped his sightless eyes mean¬ 
ingly, “just as civilization is a state of mind—the 
realizing of ideals—so is being an artist. I could 
not realize that state due to my physical defect 
—you cannot do so because of personal obligations 
. . . Claxton, head of the oriental department, is 
retiring the first of the month—report tomorrow 
under him and be ready to take his place. Sometime 
ril send you to the far east to buy. Some day you 
will find yourself general manager—later on, you’ll 
buy the business from my estate. Well—is it a 
bargain ? I believe that as you cheapen labor so you 
cheapen souls, I won’t be a party to either. You’ll 
start with a fair salary and a percentage on your 
sales. You know I’ll keep my word even if I do 
lose my temper.” 

Jones knew what he must answer. 

During the somewhat abrupt speech, he had been 
making a telling decision. Here was the chance to 
do for his family all he had pledged to do yet remain 
in a congenial atmosphere. Hamlin was right, he 
would only prove a mediocre artist, therefore it was 
better he became a super-artisan. 


7 


98 


UP AND COMING 


“ril report, sir,” standing up and holding out his 
hand, '‘and I’ll prove worthy.” 

Hamlin’s sightless eyes closed for a moment. Then 
he looked beyond Jones’ shaggy head to ask politely 
concerning Patricia’s marriage, was it such a bad 
thing, after all? Perhaps his mother was hasty in 
her decision. 

"It was not what mother planned on, that was 
half the battle,” Jones admitted, "work has narrowed 
her ideas, it is hard to adapt herself to changes. I 
don’t know Owen—^he may true up.” 

"You can’t tell. I remember my own honeymoon 
to the Sandwich Islands,” Hamlin chuckled, "we 
reached there to find a revolution in progress, it was 
to be the Sandwich Islands for the Sandwich 
Islanders—and a massacre of foreigners. Quite a 
welcome for my bride. We sat up all night awaiting 
the worst and in the morning tiptoed out to accost the 
clerk and ask when the blow was to fall. His 
nonchalant reply was they had decided to abandon 
the massacre in favor of a native feast and we might 
go out and buy souvenirs with a gladsome heart. 
That served me a good turn—I never expect the way 
a thing starts will indicate the way it may finish. 
Remember that.” 

"I’Jl try,” Jones said appreciatively. 

"Any plans for your own romance ?” the sightless 
eyes seemed penetrating, uncomfortably keen. 

"None,” was the emphatic reply, "I haven’t time 
for romance.” 

Hamlin laid a hand on his arm, "seeing” his 


UP AND COMING 


99 


thoughts. “A rash statement, young man—don’t 
make them unless you’re recommending a purchase 
of one of our antiques!” 

Outside, Jones glanced at the Dunlevy home, 
wondering whimsically just which part of it his 
grandfather builded. A for sale sign was on the 
veranda, the Dunlevy finances being hopelessly on the 
wane. 

He went home, eager to reassure his mother that 
his career was settled, he was manager of the oriental 
department. He knew his family would rejoice. 
They would not analyze their personal interest, they 
would call it '‘a splendid start”—so it was. Yet he 
was lonely this fragrant June night as he walked to 
the Elm street house. 

He longed for what he called “nonsense,” he would 
have liked to dance with pretty girls and pay them 
trite compliments. He did not want to share his 
thoughts with his mother. 

He planned on moving into an apartment, selling 
the double house which had been twice mortgaged. 
The manager of a department at the Hamlin store 
could not live in such an environment. Besides, 
there would be only his mother and himself, the 
house necessitated too much work. And in moving 
he would be able to refurnish to please himself, 
without jarring his mother’s sense of economy and 
fitness. 

Martha was delighted. She rejoiced because of 
Jones’ devotion as well as the lessening of financial 
pressure, because he was toiling in the same steady 


) 


) 


100 


UP AND COMING 


way she had done, narrowed in interests, removed 
from the world. 

Although she would not have admitted it, she was 
glad Marian chose to stay away and that Pat was 
married. She saw no wrong in monopolizing her 
son. She had done everything for him and she still 
did everything he asked of her. Therefore, he was 
her own. The girls were her own, too, but Jones 
was different! 

Marian had an excellent chance to coach during 
the summer and Martha had written her to accept 
by all means. Jones made her so happy, he was 
very generous. She had always cherished the hope 
of his being an important factor in the art store and 
now he was. Making a remarkable success, too, his 
salary was nothing compared to his commissions. 
He not only knew what people wanted but how to 
convince them of this fact. 

Wasn't Marian amazed to know the double house 
was sold and they were moving into a nice apartment, 
it seemed strange to have polished floors and a 
janitor to tend to the heat. Jones wanted her to be 
very lazy, he bought her all sorts of clothes and had 
her go to a hair dresser. He even hinted of a fur 
coat but she would not permit such an extravagance. 
He had completely refurnished. In splendid taste— 
although not the way she would have done. They 
only had five rooms and a kitchenette and she would 
be able to do all the work, Jones must save his 
money for these were his best years, one could never 
tell what might lay ahead in the way of illness or 


UP AND COMING 


lOI 


adversity! She was glad Marian appreciated him. 
The check she enclosed Jones sent because he had sold 
a bronze temple god and received a large bonus and 
instead of spending it on himself or a stranger, he 
wanted his sister to benefit. Jones was evidently not 
the marrying kind. He had too much sense to con¬ 
sider it just now. (Blind, happy Martha). He rea¬ 
lized he must make his fortune and improve his 
business opportunities. 

As for Pat I Martha’s mother heart forbade her 
being stem after Pat wept on her shoulder and de¬ 
clared she could never be happy if her mother still 
disapproved. In strong terms of denouncement, 
Martha wrote Marian her opinions of Owen and his 
mother. But that she tried to make the best out of 
what she feared would be the worst. Jones had 
helped Owen start an electrical shop in Burlington, a 
hundred miles distant. Since Owen’s mother refused 
to speak to Pat or aid her son, it was better they went 
out of town to work out their own problems. She 
would visit them—when Jones could spare her, his 
interests came first. She closed the almost tiresome 
account of family detail by telling Marian she was 
certain Jones would help her to a post-graduate year 
if that was her wish. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Jones won out about the new furnishings even to 
having candlesticks at either end of the mantel and a 
painting of the Carmel mission set into the wall. 
There were crouching dragons for fire irons and a 
profusion of teakwood chairs and a table, silver gray 
hangings and small rugs upon which Martha in¬ 
variably slipped. She felt ‘‘strange.” She missed her 
hodge podge of walnut, golden oak and mission fur¬ 
niture, shabby carpets and handmade bookshelves, 
the homey, homely ornaments valued because of 
initial associations. 

But when Martha sold the fur coat Jones proudly 
bought her—her first fur coat and his ulster slightly 
worn, he became resentful. He recalled that Van 
Dyke taught the English aristocracy how it ought to 
look but he was doubtful if Van Dyke could have 
done likewise regarding his mother. 

Foolishly he had lied about the original cost, since 
it would have distressed Martha. When she con¬ 
fided the supposed cost of the coat to an amused but 
malicious neighbor, the neighbor promptly offered 
to buy it and add twenty-five dollars to the price. 
Martha then felt it her duty to retrieve Jones’ money 
and have some to spare. 


102 


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103 


'*1 wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing it, bless his 
heart for thinking of me—but Pm not a bit sorry to 
sell,” she had declared. 

After the woman gave her the money, rejoicing at 
her unfair bargain, Martha purchased an ample, ugly 
green garment and awaited Jones’ approval. Jones 
must buy himself a new coat, he would see that his 
mother had been both sensible and unselfish in 
disposing of the gift. 

Jones let his temper go for the moment. It 
seemed to him that being a grind was a futile pro¬ 
cedure. He told his mother if this was the way she 
was going to do, they had better come to the 
understanding that a gift was a gift, not a paying 
investment. He did not like the new coat which 
hinted of the days of wearing made-over things. He 
hated the very thought of those days. Reaction had 
set in. Now that he made money, he was con¬ 
temptuous of petty economies. He wanted to be a 
sensible spender. He demanded the silk lined, 
solid silver things of life, a compromise for his lack 
of personal interests. 

Of course Martha cried. She felt misunderstood, 
desperately sorry. She was not adjusted to this new 
way of living. Jones was kind enough never to tell 
her the real price of the fur garment, that would 
have been too cheap. 

Instead, he was ashamed for having spoken as he 
did. Why flare out at his mother because of her 
thrifty, unselfish heart? So he bought her a charm¬ 
ing mauve crepe trimmed with roses made from 


104 


UP AND COMING 


silver beads and told her he had the opportunity to 
buy it wholesale, she need feel no compunctions. 

When she wore it, he complimented her, insisting 
she grew younger every moment and he threatened to 
buy her another fur coat next year. She must under¬ 
stand the younger generation did not fear debt, a 
good thing, too. She need not hoard the butter and 
have two grades—cooking and table—or dole out the 
sugar as she used to do. He could not seem to get her 
out of these notions. Why not have a woman to 
clean—ladies in mauve crepe frocks certainly should 
not so demean themselves. 

Martha was content once more, she forgot feeling 
that if Jones had goldplated the apartment he could 
not have paid more for it and her desire to slip into 
shapeless, comfortable clothes, re-read the senti¬ 
mental novels she had enjoyed as a girl. Having 
started her children on the upward path, Martha 
longed to rest at the starting place instead of 
stumbling after them. Secretly, she preferred cur¬ 
tains looped back with satin bows and framed Bible 
mottoes, she thought green plush upholstery very 
satisfactory and considered it criminal to pay a man 
to clean windows. A million such differences from 
Jones’ reformed viewpoint kept occurring. Yet she 
seldom voiced her opinions. First of all, Jones must 
be happy and last of all, she must be essential to 
Jones. 

On the whole it was a happy winter these two ex¬ 
perienced—with Marian spending the holidays and 
exclaiming over her brother’s success. Marian was 


UP AND COMING 


105 


closer to her mother than before. She was sincere 
in admiring her mother’s clothes, her new leisure. 
She embroidered a collar for Martha’s new dress and 
coaxed her to do her hair in a more becoming way. 
Together they sent Pat a Christmas box for which 
Pat effusively thanked them. 

Pat was struggling to do her part. She wrote 
home faithfully. But she seldom mentioned Owen’s 
business. They were living in a hotel, housekeeping 
seemed best not to attempt for the present. Pat ad¬ 
mitted she was homesick. She wrote that Owen did 
not miss his mother as she did hers. Unbeknownst 
to Martha, she wrote her brother in care of the store 
to ask for the loan of twenty-five dollars. Owen 
gambled and drank, she still hoped things would 
right themselves, it was awfully hard to have to ask 
for help, she could not bear to have her mother know. 
Mother was so queer! She had always been against 
Owen. She would say hateful things. Jones was the 
best brother in the world—she could never thank 
him properly. 

Jones sent the money and kept Pat’s secret. He 
warned her not to stand too many irregularities, 
break away before it was too late or she would find 
herself unable to do so. 

Pat replied that she needed even more money to 
pay actual expenses. Owen was ill tempered, unre¬ 
liable. She was expecting a child in the spring and 
she was weak and wretched. Jones was her one 
source of strength. Would he tell her if she thought 
mother would be “nice” should she come home? She 


io6 


UP AND COMING 


must have someone love and take care of her for a 
while. She realized romantic love had vanished, 
what a mistake the marriage had been. Unless a 
miracle happened, they could not go on together. 
Perhaps if she could come home until after the child 
was born, that might prove the miracle. 

On the same mail came a note from Marian con¬ 
fessing eye strain and the need for treatment. She 
had come out even with her money so far but this 
unexpected demand would put her in debt. Would 
Jones advance the needed amount until she was able 
to repay, she hated asking him, he had been such a 
prince of brothers. But eyes meant her very life. 
She did not want him to tell mother, it would worry 
her needlessly. 

Jones had made several excellent sales. He had 
planned for a vacation in New York, he wanted 
the novelty of being away and not having to stint on 
expenses. But his sisters’ claims were first. He was 
glad to be able to meet them. 

He sent Marian a check and told her to have the 
best of treatment, she need not worry about the 
money, nothing must be spared if her eyesight was 
in any way jeopardized. And he wrote Pat telling 
her to come home. At this wonderful time, she must 
be with her own people unless Owen proved himself 
worthy. Indignation for Pat and sympathy for 
Marian veiled his sense of personal disappointment 
—but this would not always be. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Martha became dominant once more. With Pat 
chagrinned and bewildered, she could afford to be 
magnanimous. She set to work to re-order her 
daughter's life as she used to order her day’s tasks. 
Pat must not return to her husband, he was a worth¬ 
less boy incapable of assuming responsibility. If he 
failed to prove himself a good husband during the 
first months of marriage, what would he do when he 
was not only a husband but a father ? It was not to 
be considered. 

Martha secretly rejoiced that her judgment was 
correct, yet she grieved for Pat’s disillusionment and 
was eager for her grandchild. It was providential 
Jones was as generous as he was successful, he 
seemed to have no other wish than to make his family 
happy. 

He treated Pat as if she were a child, cautioning 
his mother not to hurt her by unkind remarks or 
gloomy prophecies as to Owen. Pat was changing. 
The fun loving girl who wilfully turned a deaf ear to 
advice was a somewhat cynical but still beautiful 
woman with a materialistic view of life. Pat realized 
she had ‘‘come a cropper” as she told Jones. Her 
first love, generously offered, had been unworthily 
received. But instead of being crushed, she re- 

107 


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UP AND COMING 


solved to learn a worldy lesson from the experience. 

Life was before her, she argued, as much as it was 
before Marian or Jones. Her mother’s attitude that 
this unfortunate marriage has “wrecked my little 
girl’s life” was most annoying. 

“It’s an oldtime way you are looking at things,’* 
she complained one memorable day. 

Martha was helping with the baby clothes, delight¬ 
ing in their gossamer whiteness. They recalled the 
precious time before Jones was born when dreams 
furnished the protecting armor against the sordidness 
of her daily life. 

“Don’t you realize what this means?” Martha 
demanded, taking off her sewing glasses, “suppose 
Jones had not welcomed you—many brothers would 
not—and you had had no one to come back to— 
where would you be ? The world would neither pity 
nor pet you if it was asked to pay your board bill. 
The best thing you could have done, if you left 
Owen, would have been to go out to service—I don’t 
see anything else.” 

Pat smiled. “You are behind times—there are 
other things.” 

Martha shook her head. “You have never seemed 
grateful, either.” 

“Bother gratitude, sentimental snivelling such as 
you delight in,” her youngest child retorted, “I’m 
plenty grateful but I take a different way of showing 
it. Instead of collapsing, retiring from the world like 
a half nun, half martyr sort, I’m out to prove that 
an unfortunate marriage can be the stepping stone to 


UP AND COMING 


109 


success. As soon as the baby is old enough, I’m 
going into business—someday own my own establish¬ 
ment.” 

'‘Leave your child with strangers?” Martha 
indignantly demanded. 

“Better that for a few years while I earn enough 
to educate him and have him be proud of me than to 
be dependent on my brother’s bounty only to handicap 
the child in later life.” 

Martha’s dark eyes narrowed. “Being dependent 
and doing housework is nothing to be ashamed of,” 
she insisted. She felt mentally stabbed. This beauti¬ 
ful, amazing creature who was serene even in the 
midst of a wrecked marriage, to calmly declare her 
intentions of becoming a business woman. Yet she 
was unable to answer Pat’s arguments. She wished 
for Jones, he would have quieted Pat. 

“What do you plan to learn?” she demanded 
coldly. 

“I don’t know—something rich people always 
want and are glad to pay for,” was the reply. “I 
may start a smart baby clothes shop—after this ex¬ 
perience—or be a specialist in knitting lap dog 
sweaters!” 

Martha frowned. “You plan on my caring for 
the baby?” 

“Not unless you wish—you always have to fuss 
over someone—it is Jones exclusively just now—he 
may be glad of an understudy.” Pat was laughing 
mischievously. 

“You consider that I ‘fuss’ over my son? Who else 


no 


UP AND COMING 


would care for his needs? How else can I repay 
him?” Martha crimsoned with anger. 

'‘I don’t mean that at all—merely that your mind 
has been so occupied with getting your children 
ahead, out of the rut father got you into that you miss 
not having something to worry over—seeing that we 
are out of the rut. (I’m only temporarily side 
tracked, please remember.) You try to make every 
one of Jones’ pennies do double service, really living 
his physical life for him as much as possible. By and 
by, Jones will be impatient, it wouldn’t be a bad idea 
for you turn your interest to a grandchild. Not be¬ 
cause it is mine,” Pat’s blue eyes were very clear and 
sincere, “only mine happens to be coming along a 
trifle forlornly. It will be much better for everyone. 
Think, mother, when Jones marries! Unless you’ve 
cut loose from him, you’ll never be able to stand by. 
You and I will be closer in the future bcause I’ve 
been independent, grown away from you during the 
years when I should. Now I will start growing back 
—and stay.” 

“Of course you are not yourself—it makes you 
talk queerly,” Martha protested, “I don’t wonder— 
with Owen’s neglect and your condition. You need 
not worry about me—as for your tirade about my 
being in a rut and so on. I’ll keep on cooking the 
family liver and onions, it seemed my job from the 
first,” Martha reached for more thread. 

Pat caught her reddened hand. “Mother,” she 
said almost breathlessly, “I don’t mean to hurt. 
Here’s the whole thing—I’m friends with you. 


UP AND COMING 


III 


Marian is a polite acquaintance who would do any¬ 
thing necessary if you asked her to—only you never 
would ask. Jones has been both your slave and ideal 
and you his half-god. It is much wiser to be friends 
with your children. Oh, I’m not saying it cleverly 

a 

“I shall not listen,” Martha drew her hand away. 

There were tears in her eyes. Pat regretted her 
frankness. She was thinking as she watched her 
mother how splendidly pitiful yet typical she was of 
countless mothers brave enough to educate their 
children. Pat hoped her child would never sit in 
judgment regarding minute yet momentous details 
causing Madame Grundy’s approval or ostracism as 
the case warranted. 

Those poorly shapen feet from wearing old shoes, 
stained hands which worked without ceasing, a 
stooped back, the queer way of ‘‘wuddling” into even 
new clothes, her broken hair, unlovely expressions of 
the commoner which came unknowingly from her 
lips—“Gosh darn” or “I’m hanged,” endless phrases 
which grated. The limited knowledge of etiquette, 
amusing declarations such as “she had no time for 
psychology because it claimed dogs did not think,’' 
and a childish wondering why tenants of New York 
apartment houses did not call on newcomers, dis¬ 
puting the statement that fur coats are worn during 
San Francisco summers. There was no end to the 
picayune details which cruelly classified Marthas-in- 
the-middle, in no way concerned with their sterling 
virtues. 



II2 


UP AND COMING 


Pat, who knew less than either Jones or Marian, 
had a clever way of making the world think she knew 
even more. Her beauty, unmarred by physical hard¬ 
ships and enhanced by a taste in clothes, aided in the 
deceit. Her contact with hotel life, her marriage to 
a boy who was well bred if worthless all combined to 
bring this about. Despite her sorrow, Pat remained 
valiant and of good cheer. She meant to do what 
she threatened, start a business and become a suc¬ 
cessful modernist. She welcomed a child because 
there was in her nature a tender vein. But she did 
not propose to slave for her child as her mother had 
slaved. It never paid. 

As she studied her mother’s grieved face, a pano¬ 
rama of past events blurred her vision and changed 
harsh truths to pleasants fibs. She saw herself the 
spoiled child, taxing her mother’s patience when she 
was worn from physical toil, she saw her mother 
washing at tubs late into the night in order that she 
and her sister wear crisp dresses at tomorrow’s pic¬ 
nic. Or she saw Jones sweeping neighbors’ rugs or 
carrying wood to earn pocket money with which to 
buy his mother’s cough medicine. She visualized her 
idle father as he made life unendurable for his family 
—with her mother valiantly standing for justice and 
harmony and always—and no matter at what per¬ 
sonal cost—for progress! 

Those unfair punishments given Jones with 
Martha wringing hands in helpless protest and the 
girls crying softly. The first efforts to make beauti¬ 
ful the home according to her best lights, serving 


UP AND COMING 


113 

strangers only that she could serve her own more 
completely. The tender pride at each report card 
from school, tears of joy at Jones’ taking a prize, 
working at eighteen hours out of the twenty-four at 
everything from paper hanging to sewing on wedding 
finery, bargaining with second hand men, squabbling 
with her husband, listening to her children’s prayers 
—always that interested, inspiring mother who made 
her children realize the dream must be ever upward! 

How strange that she, worldly Pat, should so un¬ 
derstand. She had to thank her mother for what 
she must not do. 

^‘Mother, darling,” she said softly, “I’m not myself 
—you are right.” 

Martha was mollified. She attributed everything 
to Pat’s “condition.” To her mind, women who left 
their husbands and were expectant mothers were 
persons to deal with tenderly, as if they were chil¬ 
dren. Besides, Pat’s remarks developed a sudden 
fear, something suspiciously like the truth was in 
what she had said. 

“That’s my dear girl, now let’s finish this slip be¬ 
fore I lay the supper cloth. It is a veal loaf with 
mushroom sauce—Jones sure enjoys his vittles. To 
see him swing into the dining room the same as when 
he was a long legged boy just does my heart good. 
Whether it is off new china or my old broken set 
doesn’t change the taste, I guess.” 

“Indeed, it doesn’t,” asserted Pat, bending her 
head over her work. 

“There’s a pie from preserved berries,” Martha 


8 


UP AND COMING 


114 

added, “he always likes that kind of a desert. It 
doesn’t take much to please Jones—he always was 
that way—I wonder if he will ever change?” 

“Never,” Pat declared, thankful the conversation 
had assumed old fashioned dimensions. 


CHAPTER XV 


Because Pat was doing what Jones unconsciously 
longed to do—living her own life—he understood his 
sister better than she surmised. She had made a 
glaring mistake, still she gloried in independence. 
He was determined she should continue to make 
glaring mistakes if necessary to achieve a proper 
goal. 

When Marian came home for a few days, to give 
her eyes a rest, she could not comprehend Pat’s de¬ 
velopment. The attitude of the sisters was best ex¬ 
plained by chance remarks as to clothes, both per¬ 
fectly good remarks as Jones told his mother. 

“I’d like a gown investing me with romantic mys¬ 
tery,” Pat said, “say coral velvet and a rope of black 
pearls.” 

“I’d rather have it said I looked as if I belonged in 
the frame of an old master,” Marian informed her, 
“who cares for mystery or coral velvet sensation¬ 
alism.” 

Martha thought this more of ^‘the girls’ nonsense,” 
she did not realize how well it defined their differ¬ 
ences. 

Marian approved of Pat’s being divorced but she 
ought never remarry. She ought to stay with her 


ii6 


UP AND COMING 


mother and Jones and devote herself to her child. 
Marian declared she would never marry which 
Martha thought was “just as well.” Marriage to 
Martha not only spelt separation from her children 
but having to vicariously share whatever sufferings 
might result from the union. A woman educated 
as well as Marian, able to earn her living and be her 
own mistress was wise to remain single. Martha 
tried to impress this on her older daughter. Pat’s 
marriage “hardly seemed to matter” as she said. Pat 
was so young and it had been such a foregone con¬ 
clusion that it would prove a failure. 

But, as she warned Marian, when a woman of edu¬ 
cation starts in doing a man’s housework, it killed 
something inside of her which she never liked to 
admit. 

“No matter how you love him or your children, 
you’re conscious of that dead thing in your heart. 
I’ve named it the might-have-been. You can’t drudge 
and do headwork, too. Not for long, one of the other 
has to have it’s innings. Look at me—I had what 
people in my time and home considered an education 
—and I worked to get it, too. The school teacher 
was always looked up to, you know. Then I married 
and your father brought me to your poor ignorant 
grandmother who wanted me to work, work, work. 
As soon as I began to work, your father loafed and 
she fell sick and died and the babies came. Someone 
had to keep things going—so the might-have-been 
died in me, too. I promised myself when Jones came 
that it should never die in my young ones. In this 


UP AND COMING 


117 


country nobody ends as they start out and the way 
women have it, they slip back as soon as they under¬ 
take a house to keep and a family to raise with no 
other help than a washerwoman a day a week! By 
the time your children are grown—youVe done out, 
you can only advise your daughter to be careful not 
to kill the might-have-been 1” 

Marian was politely interested. She had no in¬ 
tention of marrying. Even more than Jones, she 
was aloof from social life. She hoped to be appointed 
instructor at her own college. Then she would be 
permanently away from home and the disapproval of 
Pat’s gowns and the way she wasted money, her 
flippant remarks. Pat had a number of equally gay 
friends who were rallying around her, Pat boa,sted. 

The small apartment was often crowded with 
them. Also, Pat went forth to their parties and the 
theater. She never came into the house but what she 
had something funny to relate. She really enjoyed 
her position as a young, unhappy matron. Hers was 
a certain prestige. Besides, it proved to her haughty 
mother-in-law that she was happier than if she had 
remained with her husband. 

Jones upheld her in doing as she wished. “You 
can’t expect Pat to be sober and reliable,” he pleaded, 
“who can reason sensibly when in the thick of a fire 
or advise the best insurance company for their neigh¬ 
bor? They wait until their own claim has been ad¬ 
justed. So with Pat. Wait until her child is born 
and she accepts things as they really are.” 

Martha was submissive. She thought Pat should 


ii8 


UP AND COMING 


do more of the work and be properly subdued. Take 
it all and all, there was considerable friction in the 
Bynight household and when Pat’s robust son was 
three months old, Jones told the first deliberate lie 
to his mother. 

He said he must take inventory at the store and 
would not be home until midnight. Therefore, he 
would stay at a hotel and sleep a trifle later in the 
morning. His young nephew was colicy and of a 
wakeful turn. Martha sympathized with him. The 
baby kept her awake, too-—Pat slept more often than 
not. 

There was no inventory to be taken but Jones 
wanted to go to a neutral hotel room, unmarred by 
family troubles. He wanted to think—what he 
wanted to think about he did not know. He did not 
realize that what he wanted was a chance to be 
himself. 

The little apartment he so carefully furnished was 
now monopolized by his mother and sister. True, he 
had invited, even fostered the invasion—but the 
situation remained the same. 

He went directly to the hotel. It was eight o’clock 
of a tender, summer night. Sitting at the window, he 
watched people streaming by. Cornwall was grow¬ 
ing, important industries had settled there due to 
natural water power. Since his grandfather helped 
lay the floors of the Dunlevy mansion, the population 
had tripled and more. 

Jones rested his arms on the window ledge. He 
was restless, guilty. He wondered if he better go to a 


UP AND COMING 


119 

theater—but he dreaded meeting someone who might 
inadvertently tell of it later. He lit a cigarette and 
unpacked his bag, smiling at the articles Martha had 
seen fit to add. One might have fancied him em¬ 
barking on an arctic expedition. There was also a 
copy of the new testament which she had given him 
years ago, she had made some unexpected money 
washing curtains for a friend. On the fly leaf was 
his name written in her slightly exaggerated hand: 

“Jones Bynight—a good son. 

“From his mother who appreciates him.’’ 

He laid the little book aside and went back to the 
window, resuming the role of spectator. He told 
himself he must move into larger quarters if Pat and 
the boy were to stay on. Certainly they would remain 
•until Pat started into business. 

Jones was proud of his nephew, he did not love 
him in the absorbing way Martha did nor share Pat’s 
tenderness. But when young Owen had evolved from 
out the “slug stage” as he unfeelingly described it, 
Jones would prove an unfailing champion. Already 
he planned on sending him through college. 

For now he must persuade his mother to let Pat 
have her way with the youngster. Endless differ¬ 
ences of opinion marred each day. The baby was not 
warm enough, he was fed too often, he must not be 
allowed to cry or sleep in the dark—and when Pat, 
more in a spirit of mischief, actually rouged her son’s 
cheeks because she wanted him to present a rosier 
appearance and sewed a fringe of false curls into his 
cap to conceal his baldheadedness, Martha told Jones 


120 


UP AND COMING 


she did not consider Pat should be entrusted with a 
child. 

Jones chuckled, recalling this. Yet only that day 
a similar clash helped drive him to the hotel. 

“I know a wonderful chef d’oeuvre/’ Pat an¬ 
nounced, “raw potatoes sliced and spread with honey. 
When Jones has another friend for dinner, he better 
try it.’^ 

“A wicked waste of food,” Martha protested, “raw 
potatoes and honey! Whoever heard of such a 
scandalous combination.” 

“One of the girls told me—there goes my lamb, 
tuning up for the day—well, his lungs need develop¬ 
ment and I need my cup of coffee.” 

Martha rose from the table. “He’s probably cold 
—you will not wrap him up enough—I’ve shown you 
enough times.” 

“Let him cry,” Pat urged, “you are spoiling him.” 

“A crying baby has me ready to fly,” her mother 
argued, “I will not listen another second,” she 
marched in to her grandson. 

Jones made his escape. He blamed neither. 
Only it was not his immediate concern. Had it been 
his own son, he might have acted differently. 

He laughed at the memory of this incident, too. 
Then he began to consider his own interests. He 
wanted red blooded life, independent expression. 
That denied career clamored for an out in some form 
or other. He almost despised his commercial success, 
he resented being referred to as a “model young chap 
—worked his way through college—never wastes a 


UP AND COMING 


I2I 


cent—devoted to his family.” Even infrequent es¬ 
corting of Martha to church proved a hardship. For 
Martha remained orthodox. Her children were 
amusing renegades. Pat played at being an Episco¬ 
palian, the drama of the creed attracting her. Marian 
was an intellectual agnostic and Jones a genial pagan. 
There were moments when he felt he could pray to 
Kawn-Yin, the heedful of prayers as well as bow his 
head in the bare church of his mother’s choosing. 
And many more moments when prayer, per se, was 
a concentrated instant of silence during which a 
divine consciousness seemed within himself. 

He should not sit here indulging in self pity, he 
who was financially independent and able to make the 
way easy for others. But it did not preclude a rest¬ 
less urge to seek recreations and friendships apart 
from his family. Whenever he brought friends to 
the apartment they were obliged to indulge in nothing 
but small talk as long as Martha was present. Now 
that Pat and the baby were there, company was im¬ 
possible. When his mother’s old friends came, Jones 
found it hard to be polite. Pat’s giddy set was not 
his choice. When Marian was home she must have 
rest and quiet. Jones actually found himself de¬ 
ferring to a cleaning woman in the matter of enter¬ 
taining a dinner guest. On Mrs. Siegfried’s day no 
company was permissible because she mopped the 
kitchen the last thing and Martha could not set her 
mind on getting a company meal with a woman try¬ 
ing to wash floors and talk volubly. 

Once started on this track of reasoning, Jones 


122 


UP AND COMING 


found himself conjuring up endless complications and 
petty pricks. He wanted to live alone and as long 
as he could not, he demanded outside interests. In¬ 
terests which must not interfere with his obligations. 

As he sat here, a girl passed along the opposite side 
of the street. She wore an exclamatory red tulle 
gown. She swayed as she walked. Jones watched 
her. He wanted to walk with her, flirt with her, take 
her to some cafe and listen to her jovial chatter of 
anything she cared to fib concerning, anything prov¬ 
ing a contrast to his problems. 

A clock struck half after eight. A fine long evening 
to be gotten through—just to escape domestic details 
and a baby’s wailing. He was puzzled and bitter! 
Perhaps he better go to the store—there were several 
things he could do. At least he would have kept his 
word to his mother. He put on his hat and left the 
hotel. 

Turning the corner he found himself peering ahead 
to make sure the flutter of a red tulle skirt was not 
at hand. 

He felt anything but inclined to pass the time of 
night with the watchman at the store, go softly up 
dark stairs to his department. What was the use in 
rearranging teak wood stands and carved ivories for 
some wrinkled dowager to lorgnette on the morrow ? 

Stumbling along, coming to no conclusion, Jones 
was confronted by the girl in the red tulle frock. To 
all intents she was waiting for a street car, a pretty, 
careless creature ready to accept a stranger’s smile. 

Jones hesitated. She turned her head away, 


UP AND COMING 


123 


glancing back coquettishly. A car sped on without 
taking her as a passenger. Emboldened, he stepped 
up beside her. Lifting his hat he asked if she was a 
Miss Hansom—pardon the mistake—she resembled 
a Miss Hansom—had she ever been taken for her be¬ 
fore—no—strange! Then she would be! He hoped 
she did not mind—yes, he was the one who had been 
looking out of the hotel window—had she seen 
him—had he looked like a Mr. Hansom, for instance ? 
Oh, it had been his ‘^ugly, nice head” she had re¬ 
membered—well, that was flattering—another car 
sped by—he wondered if she cared to walk a few 
squares—such a glorious evening. 

As they walked, the girl talking of many mad 
things, he forgot his perplexities. His partner sug¬ 
gested they drop in at a vaudeville. Jones said he 
would be delighted. He was admiring this bit of 
foolish girlhood. If she had troubles, she con¬ 
cealed them well. He listened to her fictitious history 
which she fancied he was fool enough to believe. He 
was, in reality, calling himself a fool for not having 
ventured forth long since. No wonder men called 
him a grind, laughed at him and let him alone. Then 
he became engrossed in watching the dimples in her 
cheeks. 

After the vaudeville he took her to supper, the 
most elaborate hotel meal he had ever bought anyone. 
Wisely, he withheld his name; he marvelled that she 
did not resent this. But she had told many fictitious 
histories and lingered on many corners apparently 
waiting for street cars—which Jones did not take 


124 


UP AND COMING 


into account. She considered him a “grand friend.’’ 

Leaving the cafe, she reached up in the dark entry 
and kissed him. Jones caught her to him with a 
reckless passion. There was no harm—save to him¬ 
self. His family would never know of his philander- 
ings. Outwardly, he would be twice as sedate, 
businesslike. 

As he left the restaurant and went into the night 
with the girl, he recalled a young salesman in his 
department who had been married a few months 
previous. Jones had been invited to dinner at their 
modest flat. He had been a wistful onlooker. It 
had been such a happy, charming place radiant with 
wedding gifts and honest love. He had envied both 
the man and the girl and had gone home to where 
Martha was waiting to tell him the baby was mal¬ 
nourished—four ounces below par—and the janitor 
had refused to clean over the tops of the doors— 
could nothing be done about it? 

But he no longer envied the salesman and his 
bride. Instinctively, he felt the change in emotion 
was unworthy. 

The girl was hinting for the gift of a silver mesh 
bag, someone had offered a gold mesh bag but she 
had not allowed them to give it, she did not like them, 
so she refused to carry their presents. 

“You like me, don’t you?” Jones heard himself 
saying. 

“Well—a little—you’re a gentleman,” was his 
answer. 

Innocent of the grim injustice to everyone, mo- 


UP AND COMING 


125 


mentarily flattered, Jones told himself he had ''come 
on. 


In the fall the buyer for the oriental department 
met with an accident laying him up for some time to 
come. To Jones was given the opportunity of travel¬ 
ling through the Far East for his firm, as splendid 
and unexpected an opportunity as could be. 

He accepted with alacrity. He had tired of tawdry 
flirtations, unworthy deceits. His mother and sister 
were even more at variance, with his nephew hinting 
of teething! 

This trip would keep him away all winter with the 
recompense of new scenes and people, fresh efforts. 
When he returned the baby would have decided to 
keep fairly regular hours, Pat would know which 
business she wished to learn and he would help her. 
Marian would have started teaching, things would 
be more settled, less nagging detail with which to 
contend. 

Not that he wished to shirk, but he felt useless 
in this daily friction. He must atone for what he 
considered his cheap flirtations by forging ahead in 
business. Jones was suffering from a poorly trained 
conscience. 

Martha declared he was worried because of the 
baby’s crying, yet she rejoiced at his opportunity. 
She mended and packed and advised until Jones 
found it an effort to be polite in his responses. 

He had planned on moving into a larger apart¬ 
ment when the trip was concluded. Undoubtedly he 


126 


UP AND COMING 


would have a more sufficient income. Buyers picked 
up special articles and retailed them with profit. 
Mr. Hamlin had given him several commissions and 
he had influential letters to Americans living in the 
east. 

Perhaps only the girl in the red tulle dress grieved 
at his going. She knew she was removed forever 
from his horizon. 

^‘God bless and keep you,” said Martha at the 
momentous parting, so proud of his success that his 
absence was a pleasant cross to bear. 

“God bless and keep you,” answered her faithful 
son. 


f 


CHAPTER XVI 

During the trip, Jones realized his own awk¬ 
wardness as contrasted with the easy, pleasant man¬ 
ner of his fellow travellers. His somewhat monastic 
scheme of life made him “draw in his shell’’ as some 
of them commented. As buyer for the influential 
art establishment, he might have enjoyed an enviable 
position among the passengers—from those who 
thought he would “throw a good buy their way” to 
those believing him a personage of distinction. 
Jones’ provincial self was in line for an ovation 
whether or not he deserved it. 

It benefited him immensely. The process of 
mixing with a pleasure seeking crowd was something 
like developing an apparently uninteresting camera 
film. As the chemical soaked brush passes over it, 
strange objects are brought to light. So with Jones’ 
personality. 

He played shuffleboard rather deftly by the time 
they were six days out, was prominent in arranging 
the ship’s concert, acted as gallant escort to the 
dowagers who called him that “amiable young man 
—also an esteemed art dealer” and was found drink¬ 
ing with the men in easy fashion. 

There was a girl on board, Alice North, who did 

127 


128 


UP AND COMING 


more for Jones than all the others. She was going 
out to marry a missionary stationed in Japan as she 
told Jones. Jones resembled this fortunate person, 
she also confided and she decided she would “play 
with him” if he did not object. 

Whether or not this rather frivolous girl would 
ever make a properly serious missionary’s wife did 
not enter into her brief contact with Jones. It was 
the benefit she did in giving him her society, un¬ 
hampered by conventional reserve. Young and in 
love, with Jones reminding her of her fiance, she 
treated him as if he were an old friend. She, in 
turn, taught him “to play” nicely just as the girl 
in the red tulle frock taught him otherwise. His 
mother had inspired him to achieve material and 
intellectual success, his sisters had taught him un¬ 
selfishness but this girl with her happy, well bred 
atmosphere made him long to love and marry just 
such a girl, become part of the social pattern as well 
as of the commercial. 

She knew how to ridicule him for his gaucheries, 
gently yet with undeniable wisdom, she saw that he 
read the latest novels no matter how well he might 
know his classics. It had not taken her long to dis¬ 
cover that Jones’ background contained plenty of 
sterling virtues and hardships but no normal non¬ 
sense. “Life may be simple but it need never be 
sordid,” she insisted, not a day after they had met. 

Jones ambled after her obediently. The passen¬ 
gers called her a flirt—engaged to a missonary, too 
—it was not fair to monopolize the most interesting 


UP AND COMING 


129 


bachelor aboard. But Miss North refused to share 
her find. She scolded him prettily for not helping 
her into her chair properly, made him rearrange her 
cushions and rug, gave him bridge lessons and 
actually had him strumming a ukelele while she sang. 
She refused to let him talk of his work. Jones re¬ 
fused to talk of his family. Therefore the time 
going across was put to a good purpose, Jones prov¬ 
ing a most ambitious pupil. 

When Alice North wore a startling blue crepe 
cross-stitched with brilliant butterflies and informed 
him this was the frock from which she expected to 
get little mileage, Jones recalled his mother’s worries 
lest a gown was a poor bargain, it might not wash 
well. He contrasted the blue crepe with Pat’s florid 
creations or the cheap finery of the girls he had 
known. Miss North laughed over the things his 
mother sighed about, she considered essential many 
things his mother regarded as nonsense. She knew 
how to play yet never sacrifice her dignity no matter 
how riotous grew the fun. She was always Alice 
North, another man’s fiancee. She even shared her 
ideals and secret hopes with this lonely, interesting 
chap in order to make him realize that all work and 
no play make Jack not only a dull boy but very often 
a vicious one. 

By the time she left the steamer, Jones to go on 
to China, she had him well in hand. He took her 
address that he might call on her on his way home. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Bynight,” she said as they parted, 
“I shall tell Frank everything we have done, how 


130 


UP AND COMING 


you played understudy. He won’t mind. He’ll just 
laugh. You see, to be even a missionary, one must 
know how to laugh. So you learn to laugh, won’t 
you? For you’re on the road to becoming modestly 
great if only you discover a sense of values.” 

With the exception of this sudden friendship, 
Jones’ winter was spent plying his trade in no un¬ 
certain fashion. He did well, both for the firm and 
himself. He found a rare treasure for Mr. Hamlin 
—a shrub of lapis lazuli, the branches bearing 
flowers of seed pearls and coral. Another precious 
purchase was a glorious cock carved from amethyst 
—a third was a Chinese gambling table and its 
chairs, hundreds of years old. Ancient jade buckles, 
paintings on silk, curious bracelets were stored in 
his trunks for special customers besides the merchan¬ 
dise he had shipped direct to the store. But the most 
marvellous of all was a priceless peachblow vase 
upon which he stumbled, paying only a song for the 
same, and which he guarded as if it were the crown 
jewels. 

The charm of the orient did not grip him. He 
was not able to sufficiently relax. He became eager 
to be home, to see how the family progressed, his 
mother, Pat and her future, Marian, to have Mr. 
Hamlin’s approval of his work. He wanted his 
bonus for these treasures. 

He took the time to look up Alice North in Japan 
only to find she had gone into the hills with her 
husband for an indefinite period. He left her a 
wedding gift of Chinese splendor and went regret- 


UP AND COMING 


131 

fully on his way. He had been curious to see this 
missionary who knew how to laugh and who re¬ 
sembled himself! 

Coming home, heavy weather kept the passengers 
more or less below. Jones devoted himself to sketch¬ 
ing out articles for various journals interested in 
similar art lines. He was conscious that he had 
begun to readjust his sense of values. He was con¬ 
vinced he must marrv and settle into a home of his 
own. 

He planned to have his mother and Pat stay in the 
apartment, they should have every comfort he could 
give. But he, too, had a right to his life, a life 
apart from theirs. He was more and more aloof 
from the atmosphere which was congenial to his 
mother. He wanted to express himself without the 
fear of hurting someone else. 

True, there was only a dream girl in his plans— 
someone like Alice North, fun loving, gentle, kind 
of heart. Someone who would understand the his¬ 
tory of the Bynights and be big enough not to har¬ 
bor superior judgments. 

To meet the original of this dream girl seemed 
the easiest part of the situation to Jones. It was 
asserting his independence which would prove the 
hardest task. As nearly as he could estimate, if all 
went as he expected, ten thousand wonderful dollars 
would be his share of profit from this trip—an 
unexpected fortune. 

With his salary and ample commissions, he could 
afford to marry. His mother would appreciate his 


132 


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position, as she appreciated his desire to take this 
trip. She had seldom discussed marriage with her 
son, never thinking he was of the “marrying kind” 
as she had stated. Besides, he did not have enough 
money to marry on, no woman would work for him 
as she had worked—that belonged to the dark ages. 
His sisters had heavy demands—this climbing pro¬ 
cess required continuous “boosts” on the part of 
some altruist. Martha’s ability to boost was ended. 
She would do well if she realized she must not injure 
what she had already achieved. 

The ordinary way of expressing it was: “Jones 
ought to be mighty good to his mother, but for her 
he’d be working in a butcher shop!” 

The letters reaching him had told of but one 
change. Pat had left her son and gone to Chicago 
as apprentice in a beauty parlor. Martha expressed 
both satisfaction and concern over this event. 

Certainly Pat would never be content to remain 
at home, it was only fair she become of value else¬ 
where. Martha loved her grandson, caring for 
him was a pleasure. Pat liked neither the drudgery 
of a house nor the detail of raising a child. Her 
care of Owen was anything but proper according to 
her mother. The Chicago beauty parlor was con¬ 
ducted by a woman Pat had met when she was first 
married and living in a hotel. The woman, who had 
always liked her, offered to have her live with her 
and pay her five dollars a week while she was learn¬ 
ing. A fair offer, Martha thought. It would be 
six months before Pat was an efficient operator and 


UP AND COMING 


133 


it might be a year before she could start into business 
for herself. Martha knew Jones would read between 
the lines, Jones must finance the new venture. 

In later letters, Martha spoke well of Pat. The 
petty friction of every day living removed, the child 
completely in her care, she could take a broader 
view of Pat’s actions. Instead of becoming flirta¬ 
tious and accepting attentions with a view to re¬ 
marriage, Pat seemed to develop along business lines. 
She had been disillusioned as to men and she now 
wanted to compete with them in commerce. 

‘‘She says she had her experience—with the 
neighbors watching, too,” wrote Martha, “and is 
more level headed than I ever gave her credit for 
being. Only she never did know how to take care of 
her child! Also, she is more beautiful than ever. I 
think Owen would like a reconciliation but she will 
have nothing to do with him. In Illinois she can 
obtain her divorce on more liberal grounds than 
here. The woman who has the beauty shop says she 
is so wonderful to look at, with her pink and white 
skin, that she is an asset to the business. It seems 
like a fraud, doesn’t it? But Pat swears that all 
their cosmetics are beneficial. I don’t think Pat 
will want the boy with her until she is in her own 
business. He—” here followed a page of praise for 
her grandson. 

“As for Marian, she prefers New England to 
home. She may be in love for she wears nose glasses 
and admits to owning French heels 1 You know how 
reserved she is—bless her heart. What wonderful 



134 


UP AND COMING 


children God sent me, Jones, and you, my firstborn, 
how would I have endured it without you! 

^‘Everyone knows of your trip and success, the 
papers have mentioned where you are from time to 
time—I guess Mr. Hamlin sees to that. He sent 
me some incense and a cashmere shawl, he said you 
meant me to have them on my birthday. The shawl 
is too fine to wear, I use it for a piano scarf. They’re 
so dressy. I burn the incense every time Fve cooked 
cabbage, seems funny to bother about that—I re¬ 
member when the smell of cabbage was mighty 
pleasant. But Pat started me into doing it. She said 
I had to—in an apartment house. Well, I’ll be a real 
lady yet, I certainly have to mind my p’s and q’s these 
days—but it is blessed sweet of you all to want me 
to! I hope my boy will be half as glad to see me as 
I will be to welcome him home. 

“Mother.” 

This letter started a germ of melancholy as re¬ 
garding his plans. To make one human being happy 
he had no right to disregard three others! How 
could things readjust themselves? 

He left San Francisco as soon as possible, stop¬ 
ping over in Chicago to learn firsthand of Pat. He 
found all his mother had written was accurate but 
she had not given Pat full credit. Pat had turned 
her back on the past and its dangers of self pity. 
She was out to beat the world at its own game. 

Martha had been right when she said Pat was 
lovelier than ever. In her green taffeta with a rakish 
pink hat, she resembled anything but an unhappy 


UP AND COMING 


135 


woman facing the problems of support for herself 
and a child. She was radiantly glad to see Jones, 
she introduced him to Mrs. Bloomingdale with pride 
—Jones was an asset, too, no doubt as to that. 

Mrs. Bloomingdale was one of those kittenish 
sub-dowagers who wear their own complexions at 
breakfast only; she realized that Pat was more 
valuable than ever, having met this devoted brother 
who had a comfortable income, considerable pres¬ 
tige and was in the heyday of a splendid career. 

Jones goodnaturedly took them about, between 
times he interviewed other art dealers and exchanged 
the gossip of the day. He told Pat the beauty parlor 
business impressed him as humorous. 

*‘Such frights going within your portals and such 
visions of loveliness coming out! A sell all around! 
Do you remodel noses and reduce sets of double¬ 
chins? I suppose you plan to preside over a white 
and gold salon of rejuvenation, change your name 
to Madame Patricia Vere de Vere and slink about 
in satin costumes with your yellow hair dressed like 
a bunch of chrysanthemums! Pm really not yet 
qualified to pass judgment—it strikes me as being 
as keen a trade as to gather up Chinese junk and 
unload it upon American millionaires.'’ 

“How you’ve improved,” Pat disregarded her per¬ 
sonal issue, “your clothes are so good looking and 
I adore the jade scarfpin. What did you bring me 
that is pretty?” 

“A mandarin coat and a kimono—I got mother an 
embroidered dress.” 


136 


UP AND COMING 


“She will wear it while she makes bed quilts,” 
Pat objected. 

“Come, come, that’s not nice—she will wear it 
while looking after your son.” 

“I didn’t mean to be scratchy,” Pat apologized, 
“only mother is so set and Pm so limber. That’s one 
way to say it. We just could not get on. I admire 
her more than anyone I know—I never want to dis¬ 
appoint her in the big ways but I can never please 
her in the little ones. I’m growing up, too,” she 
declared, tossing her pretty head, “ studying nights 
•—oh, not the way you did—but studying just the 
same. We are not the reckless parasites you fancy, 
even if we do make gray hair into flaming henna 
and parafin flabby cheeks. Trixie has had a mighty 
hard life—so has little Frizz, the girl you saw clean¬ 
ing up. She just answers the phone and makes 
appointments. She had a bad stepfather, she ran off 
to be married at sixteen—her husband was a drug 
fiend and he put her on the drug. Later, she shot 
him in self defense and went through all kinds of 
publicity. She was acquitted but she had to break 
herself of the habit. She went into an institution 
at her own request—that took nerve. When she 
came out, she was adrift. Trixie saved her, she was 
game enough to give this kid a chance. That’s only 
one of a hundred stories I could tell. I’ve seen life, 
not read, theories. I could describe the intimate 
affairs of a pretty long line of silk hosiery if I 
wanted to. I could not help but think of myself 
when I heard about Fritz—I’d have been like her, 


UP AND COMING 


137 


maybe, if you had not helped. Your help and 
mother’s training make me grateful, ambitious,” 
there were tears in her eyes. 

Jones reached over and patted her hand. They 
were sitting in Mrs. Bloomingdale’s apartment, Pat 
having the day off in view of Jones’ departure the 
next day. 

‘‘You will always have my help,” he promised. 

“It will be my fault if I don’t win,” she declared, 
“it usually is. Oh, the silliness of these girls—do you 
know they are underfed, living off coffee and French 
pastry in order to buy clothes and get invitations to 
dinner. They’ll do anything but settle down and 
work hard. I’m glad mother isn’t here to protest. I 
don’t want the boy with me until he is older and I’m 
in business for myself, I couldn’t give him the right 
kind of a home. Besides, he takes mother’s mind off 
you,” Pat wondered if he would resent the remark. 

“Do you think it does?” he asked doubtfully. 

“Yes, she worships her grandson, his helplessness 
appeals to her. It gives you a chance to strike out. 
You are the sort that will fall terribly in love—no 
saving you, once started. I’m not that kind—thank 
heaven.” 

Instead of confiding his hopes, he asked, “How 
much would it take to start your pink-and-white 
business venture?” 

“I’m afraid two thousand—to do it well, carry 
out my own ideas. But I’d be certain to succeed. 
I’d go to a North shore hotel and set up shop. Mrs. 
Bloomingdale says Pd be risking nothing.” 



138 


UP AND COMING 


‘‘You are certain you never want to see your hus¬ 
band?” 

“Positive. Pm to wear lavender as a proper 
divorcee’s mourning, once I win my decree; the no¬ 
tion shocked mother! The only man I want to see 
or be grateful to is my brother. I don’t say I’ll 
never marry—but before I do, I want to know life 
at firsthand. I’m through with moonlight. I want 
a man of money and importance and in turn, I must 
have something to make him proud of me. That is 
why I like these rich corn lands, it is the great, 
stirring spot of the nation, where American drama is 
being played twenty-four hours out of the twenty- 
four. I like it, dirt, noise, confusion, vulgarity and 
all—it is up and coming, too; remember when I told 
you about that? Let Marian retire into decadent 
New England with it’s repressed activities. I’ll take 
the midlands. Besides, there’s the boy. I don’t 
adore him as mother fancies I ought—as her post- 
Victorian type adored their offspring. His cries do 
not rend my heart strings and I can spank him 
thoroughly if he betrays temper. But he is the big 
incentive in my life,” a tender look crossed her face. 
“That is why I’m going to succeed—so he will not 
mourn over his father’s indifference.” 

Jones nodded his approval. “You’re headed 
straight,” he said, “poor father, I remember his 
saying you’d come out all right—you stick on here, 
and I’ll help start the business. I’ve had a pretty 
lucky trip and I don’t know any better use for my 
money than to do this.” 


UP AND COMING 


139 


Jones felt Pat deserved his aid. With her brave 
resolves and dangerous spirits, Pat might yet veer 
towards unfortunate channels if no one stood by. 
His own dreams must wait. Fortunately he was not 
in love, save with a dream girl, a frail ideal he could 
easily destroy. He had no expensive personal tastes, 
his mother asked only for his love which was so 
easy to give. It would be selfish to think of doing 
otherwise than championing this younger sister. 

To his amazement, he was buoyant of spirit at 
the turn in affairs. There was a relief at not mak¬ 
ing drastic readjustments in his personal life. He 
did not analyze the emotion—that Pat furnished an 
excellent excuse for not giving his mother a 
daughter-in-law. 

He would join a prominent men’s club, the head¬ 
quarters being in the erstwhile Dunlevy mansion, 
buy a motor, have vacation jaunts, take part in social 
events which he had hitherto shunned. These would 
be sufficient antidote. 

He hinted nothing of this to Pat. His visit had 
given her great pleasure. She had shown her asso¬ 
ciates how well protected she was by this handsome, 
generous brother. The world must treat her with 
respect. Because she rouged or drank a cocktail, 
enjoyed broad farces did not mean she was any less 
the disillusioned wife or tender mother. Her pleas¬ 
ant manner with men was that of a comrade. Her 
love for clothes and physical grooming was her way 
of “being on the climb” as she expressed it, just as 
Marian went in for translating Greek tragedies and 


140 


UP AND COMING 


Jones would go for miles to see a new art treasure 
or discover some struggling artist and buy up his 
output. 

Jones comprehended this, also the fact that his 
mother never would. The platform of the Polite 
Letter Writer was still Martha’s to a surprising 
degree. She was somewhat ashamed this was so, 
since it was contrary to her children’s wishes. She 
struggled to conceal sentimental beliefs, old style 
politeness. Jones knew, better than the girls, that 
his mother’s mental life, per se, had been thwarted 
from the day she was married. Her spiritual and 
emotional lives were ever unfolding—but who of 
Madame Grundy’s disciples takes count of these? 
And it was to win Madame Grundy’s favor for her 
children that Martha had toiled. 


CHAPTER XVII 


To his surprise, Jones found Marian at the apart¬ 
ment. She had an opportunity to come before she 
began her summer school teaching. The moment 
they met, he knew the miracle of miracles had hap¬ 
pened. Her eyes were tender, she flushed easily and 
on the third finger of her left hand was a man’s 
shabby seal ring. 

As soon as the first greetings were over, Jones 
demanded: 

“Tell us all about him, Marian—is he good enough 
for you?” 

“I knew Jones would guess,” Martha clapped her 
hands delightedly, “sit here, children, while I see 
that Owen isn’t into mischief. Tell him every¬ 
thing, dearie, he will understand. My, it does me 
a world of good to see you back, safe and sound, and 
successful, too. I’ll wager. My boy home from the 
orient. My girl engaged to be married. Tell me 
how Pat is and I’ll be so happy I can’t stand it.” 

“Pat is coming on,” Jones answered, nervously 
lighting a cigarette, “she is in her element making 
dowagers into subdebs and subdebs into vampires 
which seems to be the way they want things to 


142 


UP AND COMING 


appear. I expect Pat will preside over Michigan 
Boulevard’s most exclusive beauty shop, secretly 
amused all the while. Pve promised to start her 
in business.” 

“You’re the best ever,” his mother glanced mean¬ 
ingly at Marian. 

“I’m doing what makes me happy—I deserve no 
medals. Instead, where shall we begin to talk, 
letters never counting for much ?” 

“Let Marian be first to confess,” she suggested, 
“we have all summer.” 

Meantime Jones was conscious of being disap¬ 
pointed in his apartment. Contrasted with what he 
had seen, it was garbled attempt at good taste. His 
mind was really not concerned with Marian’s love 
affair or his mother’s welcome or the baby’s new 
teeth but to go to the store and talk with Mr. Ham¬ 
lin, be hailed by clerks and patrons, receive his just 
reward. This stuffy place with his mouse-mother 
and a sister as sentimental as if she had never taken 
the Greek prize failed to intrigue him. 

“Pardon me,” he said to Marian, going over to 
the piano to remove the cashmere shawl covering 
and a vase of artificial flowers, “I wonder who put 
those there?” 

“I did,” Martha interrupted, poking her head in 
the doorway, “I know you dislike such things but the 
flowers seemed a good imitation. Mrs. Gleed 
brought them up—you remember her, don’t you? 
She was James Slack’s aunt that had the notion store 
down near the terrace? An awfully good friend to 



UP AND COMING 


143 


me in days when friends were scarce ... I didn’t 
mean to stop your visit but I heard you ask about 
the things,” she lingered at the door, a trifle hurt. 

“Tell Mrs. Gleed we appreciate the friendship 
but won’t she please keep the five-and-ten cent store 
at home,” was Jones’ reply. A faint odor of cooking 
annoyed him, also a sudsy smell suggesting wash 
day. The baby was screaming barbarically. He was 
becoming aware that Martha had changed almost 
everything in the room—to suit her taste or remove 
the articles from the baby’s reach. His vases were 
huddled together. Mother Goose blocks were piled 
on his choicest prayer rug, his teakwood desk was 
locked and lonely of aspect and the books had been 
dusted but replaced in careless fashion. Martha 
had been a faithful custodian of his treasures but 
she was incapable of enjoying them. 

Her workbasket piled with mending was on the 
carved table, there were framed lithographs in the 
hall, things she saved from Sunday supplements; 
The Storm at Sea, Too Late, Nelson at Tralfagar— 
huge things belonging to an institution reception 
room. 

Yet he must not hurt her feelings, she was such 
a jewel to care for Pat’s boy and keep his home 
awaiting him. 

“Oh, it’s all right,” he said easily, “only the 
flowers don’t go with my heathen litter—I suppose 
I’ve picked up even odder notions in the east.” 

“I wish you had kept a diary,” she said enthusi¬ 
astically, “I read your letters to everyone—the jani- 


144 


UP AND COMING 


tor’s wife had a son who shipped on an oil boat to 
India, she was always so interested in what you 
wrote. I took the best ones to the newspaper, they 
printed them—I’ve saved the copies.” 

“You printed the fool stuff,” Jones began, “al¬ 
together too generous in your estimate of me. I’m 
afraid.” 

“Marian, what did people say to you—clear off 
in New England?” 

“That the letters were deeply interesting,” there 
was a preoccupied look in her eyes, “and it gave 
mother such pleasure to see them in print you ought 
not mind.” 

“Oh, I don’t—where did you put my chess set?” 
he straightened a Japanese print, “and the nest of 
gods?” it was hard not to betray irritation. 

“The baby cut his teeth on the chess set, those 
ivory figures seemed to be just what he wanted to 
chew away at,” Martha confessed, “the nest of gods 
is in your room—in the chiffonier. I was afraid 
something might happen to them—ugly little imps 
that they are.” 

“Thanks,” Jones walked up and down, puffing at 
his cigarette. “Does the infant howl like this with¬ 
out permission?” 

“I’m afraid that is temper,” Martha admitted, “be¬ 
cause he is in his room and wants to be out where 
there is some excitement. He is his mother all over 
again—dear me, I remember how she pulled over a 
whole tub of clothes I had put to soak. I was worn 
out that night, it seemed as if I could not get a mop 


UP AND COMING 


145 


and clean it all up. You and Marian were in bed. 
You know how your father used to keep Pat awake 
to play with and show off—I never had anything to 
say about it. And it always made me angry to re¬ 
member the way he stood there and laughed at her 
—me with the mop and all the clothes to pick up and 
rinse and Pat drenched to the skin. ‘She is as 
strong as you are/ he said, as if that was such a 
fine thing. I ought to have been glad she upset the 
tub and proved her muscle power.” 

Jones turned on his heel. “We must move into 
a larger place, when we came here we did not expect 
to add a talkative wonder to our midst. You must 
have help—but we can decide this later,” he placed 
a chair beside his sister. 

“I won’t have any young girl to help me, they 
are more trouble than they are worth,” his mother 
insisted, “we have enough room here—just enough 
to keep me busy. I like the exercise. Seems to me 
it is as good exercise as to play tennis or golf—did 
that ever occur to other folks?” 

“We will see,” Jones bantered, “when you wear 
your new gown and wave your new feather fan, 
you won’t think of housework.” 

“Go ’long with your nonsense—talk to Marian 
and don’t tease me. I advise you to start in talking 
if you still plan to go to the store—because my feet 
feel just like it’s going to rain.” 

Jones soon learned Marian’s secret. She was 
engaged to the most wonderful person in the world, 
also the most learned and in all ways remarkable. 


xo 



146 


UP AND COMING 


His name was Robert Livingston Varley, he was 
assistant professor in ancient languages at Marian's 
alma mater. His family of old New England stock, 
were noted for their savants. Unfortunately, they 
were poor although their standing in cultural circles 
assured their welcome into any strata of society. 

She had not realized she was in love with Robert 
Varley. He had realized he had been in love with 
her ever since she entered his class. From the first 
he preferred to admire her soft, brown hair and 
gentle features than to pay heed to her clever trans¬ 
lations. He had felt, as he still felt, he had little 
right to speak of marriage. Lack of money, an ever¬ 
present ogre, prevented his doing so. That he would 
be other than a college professor was impossible. 
Teaching was his true vocation. The salary paid 
even the head of a department was nothing to ex¬ 
claim over, the present head being a crusty bachelor. 
Undoubtedly, young Varley would be offered this 
post at some future date. Then he might marry—in 
a limited fashion, but for now, while this lovely 
young woman was most tempting, they must con¬ 
tent themselves with a professor’s courtship! Tell¬ 
ing of their love instead of living it, visiting in 
boarding house parlors, exchanging favorite books 
would comprise this courtship- Marriage was at 
least five years in the distance—at least, so Marian 
repeated. 

As she talked, Jones with an artist’s imagination 
and sympathy realized the dilemna, a dilemna con¬ 
fronting too many others. Educated beyond drudg- 


UP AND COMING 


147 


ery and impoverished in purse, these college men 
and maids were obliged to bide their time until the 
first flush of romance had died and with it a certain 
joy. Then they might solemnly unite pocketbooks 
as well as lives. It was not fair, Jones argued, there 
was something pathetic in his sister’s unspoken ap¬ 
peal. She was no longer the clever bluestocking 
living for “culture’s sake” as her mother said but a 
beautiful woman, in love with the right man, whose 
future was jeopardized by the lack of money. 

He asked pertinent questions about Varley’s 
people, were they cordial regarding the engagement 
—ah, that was nice. They did not know about 
Grandfather Bynight’s being a cockney carpenter 
but she had been honest concerning her father and 
mother. They knew her sister had a divorce and 
was taking a course in beauty culture—this had 
mildly entertained them. And she had told a great 
deal about Jones, they were anxious to meet this 
successful, college bred man who had been sent to 
the orient. Marian betrayed the fact that Jones had 
impressed her New England family to-be. They 
were, besides, pleased with Marian’s refinement and 
adoration of her fiance, to say nothing of her 
reverence for his family and lack of frivolities. 
Only money was needed! The family were willing 
to give them some blue china and a spinning wheel 
when the happy day for housekeeping arrived but, 
alas, they had nothing more to offer. 

“I never told them about mother’s struggle,” Mar¬ 
ian added softly, “to bring us up.” 


148 


UP AND COMING 


“To bring us up to snuff, you should have said,^^ 
Jones corrected, enjoying her confusion, “that is the 
way she said it—can’t you remember the dining 
room on Elm street, say of a winter evening when 
father was out and we three sat about the red 
checked cloth covered table to study or play games? 
I can see mother now, wearing some outlandish thing 
someone gave her, sewing away at something which 
was to bring home more ducats and listening to our 
lessons or telling her the day’s happenings. ‘That’s 
fine, honey,’ she would say to you when you spelled 
Mississippi. ‘Come, Pat, you’ve played solitaire long 
enough—try some arithmetic—there’s my lassie— 
ho-hum, my back aches. Jones, how about some 
popcorn? A wee mite of butter in it, too—you’ll 
find it in the glass jar on the third shelf—don’t spill 
anything—’ and how we greedy creatures would 
scamper off to pop corn and cheat on the ‘wee mite’ 
of butter and she would sit working, working until 
long after we said goodnight! Sometimes I’d steal 
back to see if she would never stop and there she 
would be, bending over her work, her eyes dim with 
weariness. ‘I must have this ready by tomorrow, 
Jones, and it is easier to finish it now than to get 
up so early in the morning. I’m baking bread, too, 
it keeps the house warm for me—so I don’t mind. 
Goodnight, lad.’ ” 

He stopped suddenly, as if regretting the reverie. 
There were tears in Marian’s eyes. 

“How true,” she said, “yes, that was mother! 
But the Varleys would not understand as we do. I 



UP AND COMING 


149 


would never try to tell them. Besides, I must start in 
teaching and not thinking of marriage—mother has 
done enough. Why should I marry the first moment 
Pm able to be self-supporting and can pay back! I 
must help you both—you who have done so much 
and she who has sacrificed her all. When I do 
marry, I’ll become a Varley, with his people’s ideas 
and interests—that is what mother does not under¬ 
stand. I’ll live in the world of faculty members,” 
she tried to speak gaily, “be removed from you 
people to a degree. Yet it has made mother proud 
to have me be engaged to a professor. I must be 
content with knowing Robert loves me and will 
wait.” 

Jones went over to the window. Marian did not 
notice his silence, busied with her own thoughts. So 
was Jones. In that important moment, he was think¬ 
ing of all his mother had done as compared with all 
Marian was renouncing and all Pat was going to 
need. He was the one to see that each received 
their due portion. 

He craved love, realizing he was capable of in¬ 
tense, almost to be shunned passion. He was the 
sort of man who could be dissolute with numberless 
women if life forbade his loving the one woman! 
Already his cheap affairs were indicative of this 
drifting! He almost loathed himself because he was 
not an emotionless manikin, successful in business 
and the social worlds. Why was he so contemptible 
as to want to say to his sister: 

“Very well, be engaged, grow withered of heart. 


UP AND COMING 


150 

bitter of hope, become a grind, stoop shouldered, 
bereft of decent emotional impulses.” 

Or why did he not say to his mother: wish my 
own home, my wife—your place is not with me.” 

And inform Pat; “You made your mistakes— 
correct them as others are obliged to do.” 

Even as he wondered, he knew he would not desert 
them. His money would be spent in starting 
Pat’s business and helping Marian’s marriage, keep¬ 
ing his mother serene as the presiding spirit of his 
home! Perhaps this was weakness on his part but 
it was none the less inevitable. There was a strange 
flash of resentment towards all good, helpless women 
who had to be shielded and provided for, no matter 
what the cost. His problem was to become content, 
divert the strong current of normal longing into his 
work. The dream-wife, heaven be thanked she 
was but a dream, could remain a fragrant regret. 
He would never look twice at so-called eligibles, other 
women he would know when and how he chose. 
Jones realized, in sober fashion, that he was not un¬ 
attractive to women, eligible and otherwise, they 
liked him; men admired him contrary to the usual 
rule. 

With bitter humor he told himself he must con¬ 
fine his attentions in polite society to dowagers who 
wanted shawls or were nervous as to their lap dog’s 
increasing avoirdupois. It was better he be the 
one to wait—with a man’s elastic standards to 
alleviate the disappointment—than to let his sister 
become a victim of the “smell of the student lamp,’' 


UP AND COMING 


151 

have her beauty fade while her heart beat on in defi¬ 
ance. Jones had seen such women make tremendous 
fools of themselves after forty, attempting reju¬ 
venation, playing with boys, sympathizing with 
criminals, telling of the men they might have mar¬ 
ried, stooping to unwise flirtations. This must not 
be! Any more than to marry and lavish his money 
on everyone save his wife! 

He turned back to Marian. ^‘My dear girl, plans 
are well enough. But when two persons love each 
other as you and your professor appear to be doing, 
there is usually an elopement whether the family 
bankroll is ample or no. You don’t suppose Til let 
you starve of heart while you overwork your brain 
for five long years 1 It is not necessary.” 

“But we’ve saved nothing,” she confessed. “Oh, 
it will be hard—I care so hard and Robert longs so 
for a home! It is such a wonderful thing to have 
someone want you to be their home-maker.” 

“I have some money I never expected to have, 
don’t really need,” he explained about the trip and 
its benefits. 

Marian’s eyes opened in wonder and longing. 
“You mean you will have ten thousands of dollars,” 
she said breathlessly, “why—it is a fortune—does 
mother know ?” 

“Not yet, I want her to be surprised,” he felt 
wearied in explaining the thing—he wanted to have 
it done with—Marian married and away, that duty 
wiped off from his list of obligations. 

“But you must not spend any on me—there is 


152 


UP AND COMING 


Pat and her baby. You are not in love though, are 
you? No, I can see by your eyes. Then it is easy 
to think of someone else first. This selfishness of 
people who are in love is horrible—yet Pm glad 
Pm selfish, glad Pm in love!” 

‘‘Your happiness will be my reward,” he said 
gravely, “someday Pll come visit you and give you 
Chinese things to counteract the effect of blue and 
white china and a spinning wheel. And when I do 
come walking in with a booTul lady all my own, 
you must get down on your knees and proclaim her 
as such! Now dry your eyes and write this learned 
man of love and letters that your brother insists he 
marry you by Christmas at the latest—how do you 
think he’ll take such a command?” 

Marian was kissing him, soft, careless embraces. 
“You darling,” forgetting her usual reserve, “Pm 
dizzy—pinch me to make me sure it is not a dream 
—that you are actually giving me your bonus-” 

“Don’t waste kisses,” he advised a trifle ironically, 
“name the first boy after me instead! Really, it is 
interesting to note you ladies of education are as 
effusive as ladies of leisure when it comes down to 
cases. Let us be practical and plan—I will start you 
off with four thousand—can you manage to win 
Dan Cupid with that amount?” 

“Why—the brown bungalow of the retiring 
biology professor will be ours,” she cried, clapping 
her hands, “we can get it for a first payment of two 
thousand dollars-” 

“The other two thousand must create a scholarly 




UP AND COMING 


153 


atmosphere within,” his tone still ironical. “Pll be 
responsible for your wedding finery.” 

“You are sure you want to, do this unselfish 
thing?” she said slowly. 

If only they would stop thanking him, calling him 
unselfish, heroic! 

“I think grave injuries result from a woman’s 
being denied her love rights,” was his answer, “so 
will you kindly marry this ardent savant and stop 
making such an ado over it? You’d be impossible 
if you didn’t follow my wishes.” 

They both started, a slight noise coming from 
behind a screen. It proved to be their mother, de¬ 
lighted eavesdropper. 

“I couldn’t help slipping in, dears,” she apologized, 
“the baby dropped to sleep like a lamb and curiosity 
got the better of me. Jones, you saint on earth, and 
Marian, you lucky girl, come here this minute,” 
holding out her arms to them. 

They came into them, colliding in delightful con- 
fussion. “Now, mother, you are going to be moved 
into the Colonial Apartments,” Jones added, “we 
can’t let the Varleys buy a bungalow and we stay 
put. We’ve got to have space for my new junk, in 
the bargain.” 

He took advantage of the excitement to leave 
Marian to talk “women’s notions” with her while 
he went to the store. It was a relief to be out of their 
sight, away from the plans and happiness. For he 
was an envious spectator as well as the miracle 
worker. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Hamlin was enthusiastic over Jones’ success but 
even more enthusiastic over his return. He had come 
to rely on this young man’s companionship as well 
as his business judgment. They sat chatting over 
the east and mutual friends, buying and selling con¬ 
ditions until it was dinner time. 

“Mrs. Hamlin is away and cook uncertain—come 
eat with me at the club,” he proposed, “a tame 
celebration for your return, at that.” 

So Jones took his first dinner at the club, exhila¬ 
rated and not a little flattered when Hamlin intro¬ 
duced him generally and had his name put up for 
membership. 

During the evening, spent in the club parlors, 
Jones confessed his family’s plans and his intentions 
as to helping them. The art dealer’s blind eyes kept 
staring over his head as if he were studying some 
panorama. 

“And what of yourself?” he asked. 

Jones resented Hamlin’s ‘‘seeing” his thoughts. 
“I’m going to turn blase clubman, sir,” he an¬ 
nounced, “and make you start the art journal I talked 
of last fall. I can see its possibilities.” 

“Didn^t decide you wanted to head your own 

154 


UP AND COMING 


155 


family while you were travelling about?’’ Hamlin’s 
fingers tapping loudly on the chair arm. 

“Not at all,” Jones betrayed his irritation. 

“Ah,” murmured Hamlin, “I dare say you will 
find out like we all do that Epictetus was right when 
he said there were some things which do matter 
. . . as to the art journal. My young friend, the 
advertising campaign is what worries me—you are 
not the practical man to swing it successfully and we 
must-” 

Jones was wondering just what Hamlin had 
seen. 

• •••••••• 

Flushed with rosy dreams and impatient for 
their fruition, Marian returned to the university 
town. She would teach the entire year in addition 
to housekeeping for two for she did not want to lose 
the money or disappoint the faculty. The marriage 
would take place during the holiday recess, Jones 
and Martha to be present. 

As soon as she left, Jones affected the move into 
the Colonial Apartments. It was a well bred place 
in the park section of the city. Martha could not 
adjust herself to the change. She considered it a 
wicked use of money to make this apartment into 
a “color debauch” as Jones dubbed it. The pale blue 
woodwork, dull yellow hangings and furniture done 
in ashes of violet brocades were not to her liking. 
As she told an awed friend of other days: “Seems 
as if I had wandered into a society play and couldn’t 
find my way out. It is elegant enough, goodness 




15 ^ 


UP AND COMING 


knows, and Fm proud of my son but sometimes I 
wish I was back on Elm street where I could slick 
up the front room the way I liked and live in the 
dining room for solid comfort.” 

Further tenseness in daily living was the outcome 
of the new apartment. It seemed as if a game 
were being played by Martha and her son in which 
she was losing, point by point and Jones gaining in 
power. 

Having resolved to see his sisters “through to the 
finish” as well as provide handsomely for his mother, 
Jones could not help being overbearing. Redoubled 
interest in business, membership in the club and his 
new apartment became his paramount interests. He 
forgot to use the pronoun “our”—it was “mine” 
which was in constant circulation. He no longer 
brooked his mother’s suggestions as to taste. He 
banished her debris of “uncomfortable mementoes,” 
not a stick of black walnut or plush, no lithographs 
or hideous open stock dishes, rugs with the pattern of 
riotous geraniums. The fact that Martha, by force 
of habit and sense of insecurity, still insisted on petty 
economies was another source of variance. 

“I don’t want you to single out the poorest chop 
for yourself or eat leftovers, turn the heat off in 
your room so the rest of the house will be a degree 
warmer—which it will not, incidentally. Why do 
you do such things now that we have plenty? I’m 
not hoarding money, I want to spend it making you 
comfortable, won’t you please understand this and 
act accordingly? If you want strawberries in Janu- 


UP AND COMING 


157 


ary and they are a dollar a quart, buy them—don’t 
look at me with horror because I am gulping them 
down without due reverence for their price. If you 
want a new dress, get one—don’t have some pro¬ 
vincial working here for a week and cluttering up 
the place with threads only to have you emerge in a 
madeover thing you have hoarded for years. And 
don’t cry,” he concluded, “I’m not scolding, just 
trying to suggest. I want life to be so pleasant you 
will forget it was ever otherwise. Banish self im¬ 
posed privations, retrospection.” 

“I feel useless,” Martha defended. “In those old 
days when a strawberry shortcake even in season 
was a treat and you wore trousers cut over from 
your father’s, I was necessary to everyone. It is 
hard to sit by. Have you never thought of it? 
Well, I suppose everyone has their day and we must 
have a night as well. Mother is an old-fashioned 
fuss. But I wish we could end with a glowing sunset.” 

Jones took her worn hand, the blue veins promi¬ 
nent and threatening, in his. “You are necessary 
to me,” he lied, hating himself, “you are the home¬ 
maker. I’d put up at a club if it wasn’t for you— 
think of that.” He felt light hearted having rold the 
lie and when he saw his mother’s face brighten, he 
proceeded to tell several others. He had no wish not 
to have her preside over his house, most certainly he 
would never want any other woman to do so. He 
begged pardon if he had been rude, only he did not 
want a “boiled mother” as the first course at dinner. 
Didn’t she enjoy the slightly formal way they lived? 


158 


UP AND COMING 


Surely, she remembered the winter evenings when 
they had planned to do so—just the two of them. 
Why was she so shy of his friends, silent as if 
afraid to be her natural self. As for the old friends 
who had not changed a molecule since the days of 
worshipping cut glass and thinking motto calendars 
regulated universal morals, perhaps he had been in¬ 
tolerant of them. He did not wish to curtail her 
entertaining them—only couldn’t she do so when he 
was not about? 

Martha kissed him, happy once more. She was 
still head of the family since her displeasure brought 
Jones at her feet. She must try to live up to all he 
expected, seeing she had brought it to pass. So she 
kept her own counsel about the apartment furnishings 
and the lavish dinners Jones ordered for his “queer 
friends” who came not only to eat but also to drink 
and be merry, to Martha’s stiff horror, talk wildly 
of solemn things and treat vital issues with un- 
heardof flippancy. They seemed to admire Jones— 
to his mother’s mind, he led in conversation and 
ideas. She was proud of his belonging to the men’s 
club but she told him never to ask her to any affairs 
including women guests. Jones did not press the 
question. He knew too well what unfair advantage 
his mother would be at. To make amends he bought 
her a handsome diamond brooch. 

Marian was writing how happy she was, the brown 
bungalow already in her name and plans for the 
wedding under way. 

After Thanksgiving, during which Pat came home 


UP AND COMING 


159 


to see her son and admire the new apartment, Jones 
became conscious of nerves to the extent of being 
morose and inclined to turn combative if one took 
issue with him. 

Hamlin had set off for Florida leaving Jones as 
assistant manager of the establishment, which de¬ 
manded close attention to detail. Jones was becom¬ 
ing short of manner with humble artists uncertain as 
to their success and haughty when dealing with the 
nouveau riche. He was amused at this change in 
manner whenever he took time to realize that it had 
come about. At the club he was rated a “quiet 
spender, never overdoes’^ and the town’s substantial 
business men counted themselves his friends. 

The day after Pat left, Martha fell prey to 
neuralgia. She went to bed swathed unbecomingly 
in flannel bandages, odors of medicine prevading her 
room. Jones was ashamed of his lack of sympathy, 
he was too delighted that his nephew now passed into 
the firm hands of a nurse. 

“If you hadn’t cleaned those damned chandeliers,” 
he told her, sitting beside her bed, “you never would 
have had this trouble.” 

“They were so dirty—I was ashamed to have any¬ 
one see them.” 

“They looked well enough to me—people don’t go 
about gazing at the ceiling. Why didn’t Jane do it?” 

“She can’t do everything,” was the fretful answer, 
“you seem to think she has four pairs of hands— 
you want so many extra things, the vegetables for 
salad cut like flowers, for instance, stuffed celery^ 


i6o 


UP AND COMING 


rose leaves in the finger bowls—oh, only a house¬ 
keeper can understand. It would take two maids 
working very steadily to keep things the way you like 
unless I worked most of the time. And since you 
want the boy kept in the nursery, it means another 
effort. He’s so strong willed. Besides, cleaning a 
few chandeliers didn’t give me neuralgia—it was 
years of overworking when the house was cold and 
I didn’t fire up just because of expense.” 

“But why do the one extra thing that brings 
neuralgia on? Go south if winters bother you— 

Florida—Cuba—New Orleans—anywhere-” 

“Me go away all alone and miss the good old win¬ 
ter? Never,” she said crossly, pulling the hot water 
bottle under her neck. “Um, that feels so good— 
hand me the salve—will you?” 

“Beastly smelling,” as he obeyed, “heavens, are 
you using a piece of common cloth for a handker¬ 
chief ! And an alarm clock for a timepiece ? Why, 
mother!” He looked at her stand in dismay. 

Martha half moaned, half laughed. “That’s part 
of a sheet that was too torn to mend—it makes good 
enough handkerchiefs for common use—the face of 
the alarm clock is large enough for me to read the 
time without getting my glasses—that gilt clock you 

gave me is only for show-” 

Jones rose and put his chair back into place. 
“Think I’ll stroll over to the club unless you want me 
to stay,” he said sharply. 

“No, sleep will put me right better than anything 
else.” 




UP AND COMING 


i6i 


‘Want me to bring or send you up anything?’’ 
he was formally polite. 

“No, I don’t know what to do with half the things 
• I have now. Oh, I wish you’d look in at Owen and 
see if he’s asleep—she may forget to pull the shades 
and light makes him wakeful. Goodnight—don’t 
worry about mother.” 

Jones glanced at his slumbering nephew and then 
left the house. He owned no motor as yet, so he 
walked briskly towards the club. It was a November 
night, the wind swirling around every corner, brush¬ 
ing up heaps of leaves and street debris, capturing 
hats and making skirts fly balletwise. Jones would 
have preferred staying home, could he have been 
alone. He had refused a dinner invitation and the 
prospect of the club with it’s sedate members dis¬ 
cussing politics punctuated by drinks was not pleas¬ 
ing. 

He slowed up in his walk. He was passing a public 
dance hall, a respectable place where dances open to 
the public were held twice a week. The crowd 
buying tickets and going in attracted his attention, 
they seemed jolly and well intentioned as they pushed 
and joked with each other. Something about them 
suggested youth, whether it was their gay dresses or 
their hilarious spirits he could not tell—but it proved 
contagious. The orchestra was tuning up, a strum 
of fiddles and squeak of cornets being audible. 

This sound sent the crowd flying within. Jones 
found himself following. He glanced about to see 
if anyone was watching. He was next standing in 


XI 


UP AND COMING 


162 

line before the ticket window, ahead of two girls 
who regarded him with polite interest. 

The older was a thin blonde, at least thirty, with 
sharply chiselled features, overdressed in red, her hat 
a never ending feather plume. The other was a 
stolid sort with coarse black hair, rosy cheeks and 
curiously black flecked hazel eyes, the type that would 
look well in spangles. Her loosely fastened coat 
showed that she wore a frock of salmon colored satin 
with bands of black lace while strings of jet called 
attention to her full, white throat. She suggested 
physical strength and little brain, likewise a bad 
temper. 

Jones stepped aside to let them buy their tickets, 
noting that neither had escorts. They did not flirt 
with him as a result of the courtesy but bowing 
rather grimly passed into the hall, Jones following. 

During the opening dance, Jones occupying a seat 
on the side, he noticed these girls danced together— 
and danced well. They walked to a bench as soon as 
the encore was concluded and talked together during 
the intermission. Numberless girls passed slowly 
before him but to these he paid no attention. Men 
of common bearing soon enough dated with them for 
dances, some disappearing into an adjoining beer 
hall. But these girls, interesting because of their 
aloofness, danced the second and third numbers 
together returning each time to the same bench to 
wait for the next. 

He speculated concerning them. Did they room 
together, where did they work, were they strangers 


UP AND COMING 


163 

in the city, what were their names and would they 
dance together throughout the evening as properly as 
pupils in a finishing school? He was not drawn 
towards the blonde but the brunette wearer of salmon 
satin. She had removed her hat and her heavy black 
hair showed a glitter of jet combs. As she moved 
she betrayed a verve and dash, like a peasant doing 
a native dance, unconscious of charm. Her part¬ 
ner was more sophisticated, restrained. 

Jones forgot the irritation over his mother’s 
neuralgia and the way she insisted on re-arranging 
his carved ivories. He enjoyed the cheery atmos¬ 
phere where everyone was out to have a good time 
and took no heed for the morrow. He bought him¬ 
self a stray beer, abhorring the stuff but doing so 
for the lack of something better. 

He was shy of approaching a partner, he did not 
want to impress these people as being different and 
he knew he had not the bearing of an ordinary man. 
His clothes were distinctive and betrayed excellent 
taste, to say nothing of manicured nails and polished 
boots. They might think he was there to ridicule. 

Returning from the bar, he found a man had added 
himself to the girls’ company, evidently a long 
accepted cavalier of the blonde. They left the other 
girl to her own company as they glided away when 
the music started. Jones walked along the side of the 
hall, determined yet shy. He found the girl easy to 
approach. 

'T beg pardon,” he began sitting down, “but I 
don’t know anyone here and I’ve been watching you 


164 


UP AND COMING 


dance. Wouldn’t you try this number with me? 
Although Pm not counted an expert.” 

She twisted an embroidered handkerchief in her 
strong fingers, smiling up pleasantly. ‘‘I’d rather 
talk until the next one,” she said, “I like to know who 
I’m dancing with. Poppy never dances with 
strangers either—that is her regular fellow, Fred 
Flynn, a street car conductor. His hours weren’t 
so he could come with us, so we stayed together 
until he got here. They’re going to be married soon. 
She met him here through another girl—nearly two 
years ago. He’s particular about who she dances 
with.” 

“Perfectly correct on Mr. Flynn’s part,” agreed 
Jones, enjoying the situation, “but why need we stay 
strangers?” 

As she laughed her strong white teeth flashed. 
“My name is Bertha Mullen—I work at Briggs’ the 
wholesale millinery store on the square. I guess you 
know where it is. Poppy Templeton is in the re¬ 
modelling department of the Fashion Store. She 
lives with an aunt but I stay at the Working Girls’ 
Home—sounds like an orphan asylum, don’t it ? It’s 
the best place for girls with little wages, you get 
your room and breakfast real cheap and they let you 
do your laundry work nights. Of course there’s 
some things I don’t like but others that makes up 
for it—you gotta be in early or explain why and you 
get awful sick of goody-goodies that are on the 
board but there’s a nice parlor to entertain your 
friends and steam heat in the rooms and plenty of 


UP AND COMING 


165 

hot water and it’s respectable and that’s a lot. If 
Poppy hadn’t an aunt, she’d live there, too, but she’s 
going to be married anyhow, like I said. He has 
bought her a house way out on the east side—nice, 
too, I guess. You see. Poppy wants to get away 
from her aunt,” she broke off, blushing, “I been 
telling you everything—you haven’t said a word.” 

“I’ve been too interested,” insisted Jones, “but my 
name is—er—Clarence Montmorency,” pausing to 
see if she would allow the joke to stand. But she 
frowned quickly. 

“Cut that out,” was her frank order, “I’ve told 
you fair and square and you’ve got to do the same or 
we don’t dance—” but she was smiling. 

“I beg pardon,” he handed her his business card. 

She gasped as she read the name. “That’s the 
swellest store in the town—well, Mr. Bynight, I 
guess I won’t mind waltzing with you. Here come 
Poppy and Fred, I’ll introduce you,” beckoning 
enthusiastically. 

Having exchanged remarks, Jones managed to 
spirit Bertha into the beer hall where they sat at a 
side table, shielded with artificial palms. Here, 
oblivious to the dance, they ordered a sufficient 
number of beers to satisfy the proprietor, the strains 
of the orchestra flavoring their conversation with 
dangerous romance. 

He learned the intimate details of Bertha’s com¬ 
monplace background, tossing his beer away from 
time to time that he might be ready to re-order when 
Bertha had consumed her glass with a gusto. 


UP AND COMING 


i66 

“Buy ice cream,” she suggested after an hour’s 
tete a tete. “They have iced cakes, too—lots of the 
girls coming here don’t drink, so they make a feature 
of the other stuff.” 

“Iced cakes and vanilla cream for two,” he ordered 
promptly, wondering if she would be able to consume 
the latter with relish. 

He added a bunch of paper roses to his offerings 
at which she was delighted, pinning the crimson tis¬ 
sue affairs at her waist. 

“I love red roses best,” she confided, “I don’t know 
but what the artificial ones are the nicest in the end. 
They last until you are ready they shouldn’t. That 
is so with lots of things when you stop to think— 
real things have to have their own way but artificial 
things do as you want them to,” she dipped into her 
ice cream with enthusiasm. 

“You’re not eating any dessert,” she objected 
presently, “aren’t you hungry or are you a whiskey 
drinker?” there was nothing coquettish or imperti¬ 
nent about the question, it was asked in the 
matter-of-fact way one says, “French dressing or 
mayonnaise ?” 

“I’m not hungry—I’m having too good a time to 
eat. You might give a fellow a rosebud for his 
buttonhole,” he suggested. 

She broke one off and jumped up to fasten it her¬ 
self. “There you are,” returning to the ice cream, 
“I suppose Poppy and Fred thinks we are lost. Still, 
I’ve come here lots of times and sat here like a bump 
on a log while they danced. Folks in love are selfish. 


UP AND COMING 


167 


IVe learned a lot watching them. If I’m ever in 
love,” such sparkling blackish eyes that studied his 
meaningly. “I’m not going to be commonplace like 
they are, talking about affording a washing machine 
and laying a cement driveway. I’d enjoy being in 
love instead of enduring it, wouldn’t you?” she 
leaned her plump arms with their suggestion of 
brunette down on the table, waiting his reply. 

Jones begrudged answering, he wanted Bertha to 
talk for as she did so his irritability vanished- It 
was like happening in at a good vaudeville. 

“Quite true,” he approved, “what else would you 
do—if in love?” 

“I’d care as fiercely as I’d be able to hate,” she 
threatened, “I’d be different from Poppy—but then 
Poppy had two affairs go wrong. It kind of soured 
her, the girls say. Her aunt—oh, I forgot to ex¬ 
plain, her aunt, Mrs. Templeton, is a spiritualistic 
medium. I’ve never been sure if she kids herself 
she is on the square or not. She certainly plays the 
finished part whichever way it is. Her husband was 
a paper hanger. After he died, she nearly lost her 
mind—she claimed to hear voices and all that. 
Seeing as he left her without a cent, being a medium 
came in handy. She’s heavy on her feet and it would 
have been hard to go out to work. So she worked 
up quite a trade. Once a week they have seances 
at her house, the rest of the time she gives private 
readings. She’s had a little trouble with the police 
but it is blown over and lots swear by her. She 
says her guides are an East Indian and a Mohawk 



UP AND COMING 


168 

chieftain. Well, what I was getting at is this—this 
aunt never liked Poppy’s other fellows. She said 
the first was married and sure enough he proved to 
be. The other she said would die—but he went 
away instead and was never heard of. That made 
Poppy awful sore because Poppy was dead soft on 
the first fellow and crazy about the second and both 
times got her clothes ready to be married, besides 
lending them a little money. She worked hard for 
her money, too.” Bertha’s black head shook in 
disapproval. “Her aunt said it served her right and 
that started a quarrel. For a while Poppy didn’t 
live at home. Then her aunt broke her wrist, so 
she came back to do the work. She’s kind hearted. 
It was then she met Fred Flynn and he’s proved 
right up. But the bloom was off the peach as far as 
being romantic went. Poppy was pretty canny and 
Fred had to produce references. Her aunt liked 
Fred from the start and Poppy hates having her 
aunt remind her that she had the right dope on the 
others, due to her guides. Poppy don’t believe in 
spirits, my, but I’m talking a lot,” she paused, con¬ 
scious of her raised voice and that a waiter hovered 
nearby- 

“Bring the lady a raspberry ice,” said Jones, “and 
I’ll have some mineral water—any kind. Please go 
on. Miss Mullen.” 

“That explains Poppy being practical and I don’t 
wonder. Only I’d rather be different. I had a dis¬ 
appointment, too, but it didn’t make me bitter. May¬ 
be I didn’t care m.uch,” she laughed mechanically. 


UP AND COMING 169 

“What was it?” he was not conscious of his 
rudeness. 

“A fellow that travelled for millinery supplies paid 
me attention for nearly two years,” she answered 
quickly, the affair having been of vital importance. 
“He wrote me some of the greatest letters, everyone 
who read them said they sounded as if they came out 
of a book. Every time he was here or could run 
up for a day he showed me a grand time but he never 
told me he was engaged to another girl. He always 
talked about our getting married some day and how 
splendid it would be—I planned on it and sort of told 
it around and even had Poppy’s aunt go into a trance 
and she said she saw me as happy as a queen—that 
encouraged me. One day, I was a little impatient 
about his never coming to time about the date and 
all, I got a letter from him which said something 
like this: ‘Dear Bertha—I was married yesterday 
to a girl from my home town. I’m sorry I can’t 
explain but I want you to know I will always think 
the same of you—Jo Willard.’ That was the last 
word I ever had from him. The letter was mailed 
from Chicago so I didn’t know where his home town 
was or anything more’n a rabbit. It keeled me over 
for a week or two but I told myself I wasn’t going to 
waste time moping after Jo Willard because I never 
was dead gone on him. I forgot it, soon enough 
. . . that’s my story—my stars,” before Jones could 
comment, “they are playing Home, Sweet Home— 
and we’ve been sitting here all this time-” 

She darted from the table, Jones following to 



170 


UP AND COMING 


waltz the number with her, her firm, fine body close 
in his arms. 

“Going to take you home?” he whispered. 

“No, Fred has his ancient boat outside, he wheezes 
it about for us every place we go. I couldn’t let you 
take me home unless you called first,” the music had 
stopped despite the clamor for encores. 

“I’d call if you’d say when.” 

“You’re kidding me—you, Mr. Bynight of 
Hamlin’s calling at a Working Girls’ Home—I’d 
be ashamed to have you see the place.” 

“Make it at Poppy’s house,” he insisted, “or 
wherever you like.” 

“There’s a dance on Friday,” she suggested 
quickly, “you might call and bring me. Poppy’s 
aunt is at 489 Michigan street—do you know where 
that is? Swell neighborhood, isn’t it? Between 
Copelli the cobbler and Fitzsimmons the fireman! 
But it’s respectable,” with emphasis. 

Jones wrote the address down. Poppy and her 
fiancee acting as curious spectators. 

“About eight?” he asked. 

“Fine,” Bertha was nervously fingering the paper 
roses. “I wonder if you’ll really come? So many 
fellows just string a girl these days.” 

Jones laughed. “Try me and see. You’ll not 
forget to be there?” 

Unable to restrain curiosity. Poppy swept down 
upon them. After a little bantering, Jones said 
goodnight. He felt it had been a great lark. He 
tried to picture Bertha if she were educated, in a 


UP AND COMING 


171 

different environment but at best, he told himself, 
she would be the stupid sort who enjoyed a play 
better if it had a prologue and would want to eat ice 
cream with a fork. He preferred her as she was. 


CHAPTER XIX 


He kept remembering her na’ive remarks all the 
next day, visualizing her carefree, somewhat at¬ 
tractive self as she sat drinking beer and eating in¬ 
numerable iced cakes. Once, glancing out the store 
windows, he fancied she passed, wearing a gaudy 
black costume cross stitched with white. Which was 
true. 

Bertha, too, was “set up” concerning the event. 
Poppy’s somewhat shrewish warning about Jones 
being a trifler fell on deaf ears. 

“Because you picked lemons before your present 
peanut is no indication for me,” she boasted. 

“Fm a friend, so I warn you,” defended Poppy, 
“watch your step—^this man is making fun of you— 
I’ve a good notion not to let him call.” 

But Jones, immaculate as if for the club, appeared 
promptly on Friday evening. Poppy declined to ac¬ 
company them and play the gooseberry at the affair. 

Bertha sallied into the night with a heart as light 
as Jones would have wished his own. She was dimly 
aware things were not as she would wish them to be, 
that this brilliant yet kindly man was amusing him¬ 
self, concealing his real personality and that he would 
continue to do so. Yet she was content. His 


172 


UP AND COMING 


173 


evidences of wealth won her. One of the first things 
she asked as they left the house was: 

‘^Is your scarf pin real? Poppy and Fred say it 
am t. 

“For once they are wrong—it is real and extremely 
ugly,” he answered, “let us talk of something beauti¬ 
ful—your eyes, for example.” 

Bertha giggled. She wished the shop girls were 
witnesses to her triumph. “You’re different from 
Fred—last night he said he had a compliment for me, 
that I was pretty in two ways—pretty ugly and pretty 
apt to stay so.” 

Jones was humorously indignant. He was 
wondering if she was appreciative of the night sky, 
since silence fell between them, only to have the idea 
harshly exploded. 

“I been eating onions,” said the practical beauty, 
“I shouldn’t wear such things out to a party, should 
I?” 

Jones assured her she had a perfect right to do so, 
he told of the garlic scented passengers he had en¬ 
countered on his trips. 

This was Bertha’s opportunity. She had promised 
herself to learn more of Jones’ background—and 
future. But she tried without success. He was capa¬ 
ble of impenetrable reserve. He made her feel that 
asking questions was anything but the correct line of 
action and those he answered were in the form of 
paradoxes. He made an engagement to take her to 
a vaudeville the first of the week. She promised to 
knit him a tie as a reward. 


174 


UP AND COMING 


“Thanks,” he said, “but it would put you to a lot 
of bother.” 

“Some kinds of bother are pleasures,” smiling her 
broadest, “or wouldn’t you want to wear a tie Pd 
knit? Wouldn’t it be good enough?” 

“You want me to give battle to that don’t you?” 
Jones retorted. He did want to have her knit the 
tie—but not be obliged to wear it! 

“If you are going to do all that for me,” he added, 
“I must do something for you—come, what shall it 
be?” 

They were at the door of the working girls’ 
home into which Jones could not go, it being past the 
approved hour. 

Bertha glanced at the dim light burning for late 
comers. Then up at Jones. “There’re a lot of things 
to tell you,” she began abruptly, “and after I’ve told 
them, maybe you won’t want me to knit you a 
tie-” 

She waited for him to name a time and place 
where these confidences might be exchanged. He 
did so. 

“Won’t you take dinner with me tomorrow—a real 
Italian table d’hote—bread sticks, red ink and all. 
We can talk all we like and not feel hurried. Shall 
I call for you?” remembering he had a tentative 
engagement elsewhere but resolving to cancel it. 

“I guess you mean Gonfroni’s, don’t you—I’ll 
meet you right there,” she answered to his surprise, 
“Poppy and me eat there often. At half after six— 
so we can get a corner table.” 



UP AND COMING 


175 


^^Gonfroni’s—half past six/^ he repeated, tipping 
his hat. 

As he walked home, he wondered how interested 
he would be in her remarks. Jones had yet to learn 
that negation was never as productive of great things 
as affirmation. His interest in Bertha was entirely 
one of negation, he did not like her for many reasons, 
he did not want her to become overly fond of him¬ 
self—here, he called himself a prig—because he did 
not intend to become overly fond of her. She amused 
him, served as a contrast to his environment. She 
seemed to Jones to be a kind, common sort of young 
woman without any background, her chum’s mar¬ 
riage inciting her to quite natural envy. 

Between the time he was to see Bertha and his 
midnight walk home, Jones wrote Marian and Pat 
letters of sympathetic understanding.—Marian about 
her approaching wedding and Pat for the new busi¬ 
ness undertaking. He did not share his mother’s pre¬ 
judice about Pat’s not attending the wedding. Pie 
upheld her decision, chuckling at her statement that 
instead of having “Jo^^s waste good money for 
railroad fares, only to be regarded as the bad fairy 
—a divorcee, please let me have one half the amount 
towards an electric hair dryer and give the other half 
to Marian to help her in becoming an intellectual 
snob.” 

Martha considered this lacking in sisterly love; 
she was going to write Pat how she felt and how 
Marian would grieve! 

'‘Nonsense,” Jones interposed. “Pat’s right— 


176 


UP AND COMING 


what would she do in the savant territory, her spun 
gold hair alone would be cause for suspicion. We 
are sufficient to represent the family. Because the 
girls are sisters is no reason they are en rapport 
otherwise. I don’t think Pat missed Marian when 
she eloped nor will Marian feel a lonely throb because 
Pat’s svelte self is not hovering at the altar—if there 
is an altar.” 

“That sounds as if you belittled family ties,” his 
mother murmured, “marriages are solemn events 
even in this day and age.” 

“I value family ties,” Jones persisted, “but Pat’s 
experiences in the world have developed her sense of 
humor past the point of being a neutral presence at a 
college wedding. If she doesn’t want to come, why 
insist?” 

Martha did not argue. She held resentment against 
this opinion and blamed Pat and not Jones. To her 
mind the beauty parlor business was something 
deserving of scant success. It hinted of the parasiti¬ 
cal side of life and that her child was engrossed in 
it was not to her liking. However, Jones wrote the 
checks as Pat requested and the electric hair dryer 
and a set of glass baking dishes were forthcoming! 

Besides these letters, he experienced his first actual 
argument with Hannibal Hamlin. It resulted in 
temporary defeat for Jones. The matter had arisen 
concerning artists exhibiting at the store gallery who 
suddenly withdrew their canvases and re-sold inde¬ 
pendently. This lost the firm their stipulated com¬ 
mission, the inference being that the artist had 


UP AND COMING 


177 


someone who saw his work in the Hamlin gallery 
and who suggested that the artist sell direct and thus 
reduce the sale price and yet add to his own profits. 
Jones contended this was unethical. Artists placing 
canvases with the firm should sign an agreement to 
the effect that within a certain time limit they would 
not dispose of said canvases without paying the 
firm their commission. 

‘‘It is such a cheat,” Jones expostulated, “take this 
last case,” citing that of a canvas “filched” from the 
store and resold the following day to a club at two 
hundred dollars less than the store had been asking, 
“this chap makes an extra hundred, the buyer saves a 
hundred—we have exhibited the picture, advertised 
and believed in it, yet we are let out with a vacant 
space on the wall for some one else to try the same 
game.” 

Hamlin took issue. Like all men who have never 
experienced poverty, he was inconsistent, strangely 
generous in some ways, penurious to absurdity in 
others. This matter he regarded as “being fair to 
artists.” 

“See here,” he began, “suppose I hired clerks only 
on a commission basis and one happened to sell a 
fifteen hundred dollar article and another a fifty cent 
tube of paste—could I expect harmony? No, I pay 
salaries to insure a living wage and then allow com¬ 
missions. In the main, the artists who exhibit with 
us are not selling outside—they leave their stuff 
here for months, sometimes years and depend on our 
effects to make a sale, precluding other channels. 


12 


178 


UP AND COMING 


When they do sell, I take a commission. I therefore 
say when an artist has a chance to sell outside of the 
store, he has my permission to do so.'' 

“That isn’t business, sir,” Jones was determined 
to win, “the artist walks in here, retrieves his wares 
and goes around the corner to say: T got this back 
from Hamlin’s—let’s forget his commission and 
split the price.’ It will ruin our art department, 
artists will soon enough catch on, we’ll be a laughing 
stock.” 

The blind eyes peered at the floor of silky rugs 
which happened to have recently been unrolled ready 
for their price tags. 

“I have no intention of making any such restric¬ 
tion,” he remarked bombastically. 

“But, sir, if it was any other department you 
would—” Jones stuck to his guns. 

Hamlin had risen and was walking away. Jones 
followed. 

“All arts as well as all civilizations have laws 
which must be observed—I ask you to question 
any man in the store and see if they would not agree 
with me.” 

“There has been some trouble regarding the vases 
purchased by Mrs. Bankhead,” was Hamlin’s an¬ 
swer, “will you appease the lady’s feelings? If you 
decide it is necessary, we stand ready to make good.” 
He ignored the argument. “Better walk over to the 
graphic arts building and view the apple butter, be¬ 
come calm,” was his whimsical ending. 

Indignant, Jones took himself to the ceramic de- 


UP AND COMING 


179 


partment to investigate the Bankhead affair. One 
of the recently acquired vases was found to be 
cracked, it had been damaged after leaving the store 
—which Mrs. Bankhead well knew. Since there was 
no possibility of her passing them off as antiques, 
she had returned them and demanded a refund. 

After a hectic telephone conversation in which 
Mrs. Bankhead impressed upon him her social im¬ 
portance, that she stood ready to disrupt the reputa¬ 
tion of his firm without delay, Jones agreed to see 
what could be done. He took a taxi to a far end of 
town where Saki, a Japanese wizard in the art of 
mending, lived. Had Saki not been hopelessly ad¬ 
dicted to the pipe, he would have been on the firm’s 
payroll. But after several attempts of employing 
him, with unfortunate lapses of attention and the dis¬ 
appearance of valuable objects, Jones had let him go, 
only calling for his services as a last resort. 

Saki was very amiable, having had a pleasant 
siesta with the pipe. He agreed to mend the vase. 
Threatening him with nothing less than arrest if he 
failed to do so, Jones returned to the store in time 
to be dragged into further arguments. He left at 
five o’clock, discharging a dishonest clerk as his last 
duty and arrived at the apartment to find his mother 
enjoying a new dilemma. 

Owen had the measles! The doctor was consider¬ 
ate enough not to placard them, he understood what 
excellent care the boy would have, etc. He had sent 
a smart young person in nurse’s uniform who was 
tiptoeing about superciliously and who smiled her 


i8o 


UP AND COMING 


sweetest at Jones. Household activities were sus¬ 
pended for the time being while young Owen, very 
lobstery of hue, enjoyed endless attentions. 

Where he contracted the disease was what worried 
Martha. Had he been under Pat’s careless super¬ 
vision, she could have said, “I told you so” but with 
her never-ending vigil, how could he have acquired 
such a humiliating thing as a measle germ ? 

“Oh, children attract that sort of stuff,” Jones re¬ 
fused to take the situation seriously, “he’ll have 
mumps and chickenpox and Sunday fishing fever 
and runawayitis, lots of things. Don’t you remem¬ 
ber how we had such ailments, sometimes all three 
of us at one fell swoop? The time we were all in 
bed with old fashioned sore throats and fever and 
you had to sew for the Parker girls’ twin wed¬ 
ding?” 

“And the water pipes froze and your father laid in 
bed like a log and let me take care of you and do 
everything else!” 

“And we had neither doctor or nurse but got well 
in short order, a fine old bedlum it was. You bet I 
remember.” 

“That was a hard pull,” Martha forgot the im¬ 
mediate catastrophe, “the muscles of my back have 
never been right since—I did so much lifting, I even 
helped the plumbers. My, the neighbors were good 
to me—of all the custard and soup they carted in, 
even old Mrs. Pierson who never tolerated children. 
I guess a body is never given more to stand than 
they are able . . . but this nurse,” returning to the 


UP AND COMING 


i8i 


present, “is lazy. Afraid of soiling her white 
aprons. A lot she cares for children, a rich widower 
is the patient she hankers for—she has spent half 
her time looking at your belongings, ‘just dying to 
meet you’—” Martha’s little face was forbidding, 
“she treats Owen as if he were made of wood—and 
I’m to keep my hands off.” 

“That’s good—it may wean Owen from his doting 
grandmother,” Jones kissed her to sugarcoat the pill, 
“he’ll come through in fine shape—just let the nurse 
have full sway. I won’t be home for dinner, that’s 
one worry off your mind.” 

“Won’t you?” distinctly disappointed, “I roasted 
a chicken, I didn’t want you to feel that your com¬ 
fort was disturbed because the baby was sick. That 
wouldn’t be fair. I’ve a canned elderberry pie, too— 
you like that. I suppose the nurse eats with us, not 
a -dish will she wash unless I’m greatly mistaken. 
Well—are you going to go out or stay with us?” 

“I must go—a club thing,” Jones was vague and 
impatient, “is that some medicine she is using—the 
place smells like a drug store. I’ll leave you and the 
nurse to quarrel over the chicken wishbone and tell 
me about it tomorrow.” 

He went into the nursery to glimpse the situation. 
Owen and the nurse were endeavoring to tolerate 
each other. As soon as Jones appeared, the nurse 
began cooing about “her sick lamb, yes, he was—a 
sick lamb.” 

Jones fled. The measles incident added another 
reason for his being considered such a good brother 


UP AND COMING 


182 

and son, he would be thanked for paying the paltry 
bills. He almost preferred being called a selfish cad 
just by way of contrast. Only he lacked the courage 
to go about it! 


CHAPTER XX 


When he saw Bertha in cheap finery and hilarious 
spirits, he wanted to do no less than kiss her. She 
was so commonplace, with none of the cobwebby 
introspection which threatened his common sense. 
She was unfeignedly happy to see him, she even 
scolded because he was late. 

“Couldn’t help it, my dear girl,” replied Jones as 
they sat at a secluded table, the waiter fondling a 
bill as a reward for steering them thusly, “my kid 
nephew has the measles—family calamity! Perhaps 
I ought not have told you—you may be afraid of 
germs.” 

Bertha’s white teeth flashed an amused smile. 
“Measles? My stars, Pve even had the black kind 
—Pm not afraid of anything except cockroaches 
and getting too fat! Pm that hungry I could eat a 
house,” breaking off a breadstick to crunch at it 
with a relish. 

“Good for you! Two martini cocktails,” he 
ordered as the beginning of their menu. “You look 
awfully nice,” as the waiter departed, “a man has 
to be worthy of a pal like you, doesn’t he?” 

“That’s what I wanted to talk about,” was her 

183 


184 


UP AND COMING 


quick reply. “Pm no school girl—neither are you 
just approaching man’s estate—and I like you, I 
guess that’s no secret, is it?” 

“Not any more than the fact of my liking you,” 
the festive atmosphere of the restaurant coupled with 
sentimental piano music made him reckless in state¬ 
ments. What he liked was what Bertha typified. 

After a second cocktail, Bertha expounded her 
views a trifle more vehemently than was her wont. 
“I told you I been fooled by a man,” she said in 
part, “and it made me wise. Now I’m not thinking 
a man like you would want to marry me—when you 
can marry any sort of girl you like,” she understood 
the art of flattery, “but you seem to like my style. 
What I’m getting at is this: are you fooling with 
me for a few weeks or do you want to be pals? 
Are you in love with someone else—or married? 
A girl gets so she ain’t surprised at anything these 
days. Who are you, anyhow? ’Fess up,” leaning 
across the table, her red lips in an attractive pout. 
“I’m not like Poppy—wanting to be married. I 
choose romance, the same as in a play.” 

Bertha craved glamour but did not know how to 
express it. In exchange for the glamour Jones could 
give, Bertha could lend him the illusion that he did 
not care for marriage, since he had a cheaply attrac¬ 
tive comradeship removed from family and business 
horizons. Bertha was no young girl with a heart 
to bruise, ideals to destroy. He would be blame¬ 
less. And upon this tragic foundation of insincerity, 
they proceeded,—with Bertha secretly hoping, as all 


UP AND COMING 


185 


women always hope and always will, that she would 
become so indispensable to Jones he would marry 
her. And with Jones happier than he ever remem¬ 
bered as he listened to Bertha’s outpourings of her 
past hardships and injustices—then a rather hesitat¬ 
ing admission that her affair with Jo Willard had 
been of more alarming proportions than the first 
expurgated version, that she knew, in truth, all she 
was about when she told Jones she was willing to 
be pals. 

During the next hour, Jones was informed as to 
the ways of girls circumstanced such as Bertha. 
Those endowed with a gift for trimming hats or 
doomed to stand behind store counters, thus barred 
from matrimonial prospects, took to public dances 
and saw to it that they became pals, as good 
a word as any, with their various escorts, gradually 
causing them to feel a sense of loyalty and, more 
often than not, marriage would be the final outcome. 
Bertha saw in Jones a ‘‘swell fellow who was tied 
to his family’s apron strings” but, perhaps, who 
knows—among her set, she was making a legitimate 
endeavour. Since Jones had paid her attention, she 
could afford to turn up her nose at truck drivers 
or clerks who flirted with her spasmodically but 
‘‘who never spent anything but the evening” as 
Poppy had pointed out. 

Bertha realized that Jones liked being treated in 
a buoyant, hail-fellow-well-met fashion, he liked her 
boisterous cheer, a letdown from being with “swells 
and swell things” as she knew his business demanded. 


UP AND COMING 


186 

On the other hand, the craving for romance and 
beautiful things which tortured Bertha would be 
appeased. Why consult Madame Grundy as to the 
affair? 

By degrees, Jones found himself telling some¬ 
thing of his family which needed his moral and 
financial support, although the terrible noon-day 
stress was passed. He had never hoped to find any¬ 
one like Bertha, willing to accept this viewpoint, 
be comfortably in love with him and satisfied with 
the arrangements which followed. On the other 
hand he assured her: 

“Fm not a man who will suddenly desert you for 
a stranger. I’ll be loyal—only you must understand 
that I can’t marry and I don’t want to interfere with 
your doing so, should occasion arise. We can have 
jolly times together—in our own way. Is that satis¬ 
factory?” Jones felt a trifle uncertain as to this, 
he did not see how such a situation could endure— 
nor how it could terminate pleasantly. But Bertha 
interrupted: 

'‘1 can tell of girls at my shop—nice girls, too— 
who have friends like you. It’s only the girls who 
will marry some twelve dollar a week guy that lose 
out. I’ve learned that,” shaking her head. Her 
dark eyes betrayed a greedy glitter. ^‘In my set, it 
is nobody’s business what they do. Poppy and Fred 
will come to see me more if you are my friend, be¬ 
cause I can do more nice things for them—that’s 
human nature, ain’t it? Of course I don’t expect 
to know your family or friends—and I guess it 


UP AND COMING 187 

won’t bother me much. Pm satisfied with liking you 
—you were a gentleman from the start.” 

He held out his hand. Unseen by the others, 
she laid her thick, red hand on it. He bent over to 
kiss it. “Here’s to loyalty,” he said, “but remember, 
if the time comes when you want to marry—you 
must do so. Just as if I were not about. I’ll never 
want to marry,” with masculine stupidity, “so it’s 
a go. 

“I’ll agree to that,” laughed Bertha, congratulat¬ 
ing herself. 

When Jones left Bertha, he found himself amused 
at recalling Hamlin’s attitude as to artists and com¬ 
missions, tolerant at Mrs. Bankhead’s cheating and 
Saki’s uncertain habits, tenderness itself to the fam¬ 
ily. He fancied he had re-arranged his life so as 
to harm no one but make himself happy. 

Bertha was to find an east side apartment and 
furnish it like “I always wanted,” including cut 
glass, a player piano, already she planned to over¬ 
shadow Poppy’s bridal splendor. Jones was to be 
on en famille terms, to enjoy the bohemian, careless 
living which should follow. Bertha must substan¬ 
tiate her boast of being as good a German cook as 
her mother had been and as fine a flirt as her old 
Irish dad! She was to continue in the millinery 
department but she would have no cause to be con¬ 
cerned as to her position. Her wish for a wrist 
watch and a diamond ring stood an excellent chance 
of being satisfied. It was quite romantic and unreal 
—quite absurd as both refused to admit. 


i88 


UP AND COMING 


Having passed the first charm of youth, removed 
from social settings, Bertha was hopeless as regarded 
matrimony unless through such an avenue as Jones 
himself. He was perfectly fair prey and she was 
sincere in her loyalty and gratitude. She would keep 
her part of the bargain—and she would see that he 
kept his! 

Coming home after midnight, Jones found his 
mother waiting up. She wore an old dressing gown 
he particularly disliked, her fine hair plaited into two 
ridiculous pigtails. 

‘‘I wanted to tell you Owen’s fever has gone— 
seems miraculous. He will have to be careful about 
bright lights and food, but that doctor is a wizard. 
Was the club thing stupid, my dear? I declare, I 
felt lonely—as if Owen wasn’t on my mind.” 

Jones kissed her. “That’s fine news—good for 
the old topper. I’ll buy him a rocking horse to cele¬ 
brate. I’m sorry you were lonely—yes, it was 
extremely stupid—extremely. I’m going to buy you 
the handsomest gown of fragile gray tulle I can find 
—you must wear it at Marian’s wedding.” 

‘ “Oh, Jones, you’re so good,” she sighed, her eyes 
searching his meaningly, “and you work so hard— 
what should we all do without you!” 


CHAPTER XXI 


) 


Marianas wedding was but mildly interesting to 
Jones, having dutifully given away the bride and 
properly impressed the future in-laws. He was 
glad she had not come to his apartment to be mar¬ 
ried, she harmonized too well with the intellectual 
atmosphere. 

Jones had speculated correctly regarding his bro¬ 
ther-in-law, a shabby, estim.able student, useless out¬ 
side his own limited boundaries, priceless within 
them—and perfectly content this was so. 

The Varleys would live happily ever after in their 
shabby brown cottage which they proudly displayed 
to Jones—a peaceful if somewhat narrowed horizon. 

The Varley “girls” were the helpful Harriet type 
of persons, given to tortoise shell rimmed glasses 
and determined shoes, telling others how best to 
broach life’s cargo. They regarded Jones as a fasci¬ 
nating and complex personality. They stood up 
with Marian who made as lovely a bride in her web 
of creamy lace, so Jones described it, as the campus 
had ever called its own. Although the bridegroom 
forgot his necktie, the ceremony being delayed until 
the loss was remedied and, at its conclusion, kicked 
over an umbrella jar of holly in his excitement, the 
affair was counted a success. 

189 


UP AND COMING 


190 

This scholastic setting brought startling changes 
of opinion to Martha. She felt out of things. Save 
for her modish frock, she typified the person who 
has done the drudgery. The barrier of education 
which Martha so bravely erected between her daugh¬ 
ter and herself was insurmountable. Marian would 
be kind, wincing at the word, but never sympathetic. 
Yet she was so happily removed from her mother’s 
world that Martha could not begrudge her joy. 

No one paid Martha attention—she was the bride’s 
mother. Even the sisters-in-law came in for homage. 
They had trained if amusingly pragmatic minds. 
Measles or how to can vegetables successfully did 
not intrigue their brain cells to the exclusion of 
world topics. Although they had stinted they had 
never been denied necessities, or been forced into 
intimate contact with one’s inferiors. Herein was a 
telling difference! 

Martha was glad when she was on the train bound 
for home. The Varleys were to waste no money. 
Only to Boston for the rest of the week and then 
home to the brown cottage. Here, “too happy to be 
true” Marian was to begin her battle with pots and 
pans. 

“I’m sure to come croppers as a faculty man’s 
wife,” she told her brother, “such as the right time 
of leaving after a sorority dinner or when to call on 
the president’s wife. But everyone respects Robert 
so much they will excuse my shortcomings. I’m too 
happy to mind, anyway—and I owe it all to you, 
blessed boy of boys! Tell Pat I’ll write soon.” 


UP AND COMING 


191 

‘‘You didn’t mind her not coming?” he took occa¬ 
sion to ask. 

‘‘Dear, no,” Marian shook her head, “Pat would 
have been almost as awkward as mother—no one 
could have helped it. You understand, Jones— 
you’re splendid to mother, smoothing the way and 
making everyone be nice to her.” It still rankled 
with Marian, to her own horror, that she lacked a 
family record of social importance. 

“Keep happy,” Jones said at parting, “don’t thank 
me too much or you’ll grow to hate me—truly! You 
are no less my sister because you are Robert’s wife 
and I want you to feel I am with you in whatever 
you may wish to do. Let me share and help as 
always.” 

“And I must live up to Robert’s ideals,” blind to 
her brother’s altruism, “I’m afraid I’m not worthy 
of him, sometimes.” 

“See that he lives down to your sensible ideas,” 
Jones suggested, “remember a balloon needs an 
anchor. Don’t persuade yourself you are not good 
enough—a college professor is as liable to be a 
great baby over a toothache as an impecunious art 
dealer. These intellectuals who, when they do not 
know how to express themselves otherwise, label 
things as being ‘significant’ and their daily tasks as 
‘my great privilege’—they are all possessed of an 
Achilles’ heel.” 

As he traveled homeward, he found himself 
vaguely wishing he, too, was master in a shabby 
brown cottage and was essential to someone who 


192 


UP AND COMING 


wore a new gold ring. Still, Bertha was waiting 
as eagerly as Marian did for her husband. She was 
to move into the apartment the first of the year. 
Never before had business proved more successful. 
Pat seemed to be settled and away and his mother 
had told him, not an hour ago, she was happier than 
she ever hoped to be. What was it happened to the 
man who asked for everything his heart could wish 
for, Jones asked himself, as Martha fussed about 
the tip he bestowed on an indolent porter. 

He did not recall the answer until they neared 
Cornwall. To be sure—the man who asked for 
everything his heart desired and had been given it 
without reservation had died of heart failure! 


Jones was too absorbed in Bertha and their care¬ 
less times to notice the change in his mother. Like¬ 
wise, Martha, occupied with her struggle of “catch¬ 
ing up,” did not note Jones’ indifference. At an¬ 
other time she would have seen that he was absent 
more than usual, distraught, careless as to how his 
household was ordered. He had no leisure for per¬ 
sonal talks during which they would discuss every¬ 
thing from Plato to potato pancakes, Martha ex¬ 
pressing her views as forcibly as if she were hand¬ 
ing down some decision from the supreme bench. 
Jones never made her feel her bromidic reactions 
were anything but startlingly “significant.” He 
shared her memories with a chivalrous patience and 
paid her graceful tributes in the bargain. 


UP AND COMING 


193 


Martha, herself, had no time for such confidences. 
Even Pat’s letters about her marvelous success and 
her hints of wanting her son with her did not pro¬ 
voke family debate. Marian’s letters, so happy one 
reread them merely for vicarious joy, were taken 
as a matter of course. 

But the time was soon when Martha should ob¬ 
serve her son’s distraitness and Jones be forced to 
consider his mother’s efforts. While blizzards 
gripped the country and sleighbells jangled, Jones 
and Bertha had established their friendship with the 
sanction of Bertha’s friends and good-natured 
winks of understanding by Jones’ associates. 

According to the clubmen, Jones was bound to 
cut loose, a wonder he had not done so long ago. 
They considered Bertha a mediocre young woman, 
fortunate in ensnaring Bynight. They wondered at 
his preference for such a person whose idea of a 
lady was evolved from white kid gloves and syn¬ 
thetic perfumes whereas Jones’ hidden dream was 
of someone suggesting a charming, pastel atmos¬ 
phere. They would never have suspected he would 
select this barmaid type who could cook beefsteak 
and onions instead of sing French chansons. Still, 
it was Jones’ concern. 

Jones took some of them up to the flat where 
they held riotous evenings with Bertha as cook and 
entertainer combined. They ate her excellent meals 
and listened politely while her strong white fingers 
thumped out ragtime melodies on the new piano. 
Bertha usually had some of “her girl friends” to 


194 


UP AND COMING 


meet these men and here both enjoyed a camaraderie 
at least more honest than when each set went its 
repressed, often stupid way. Men understood Jones 
could not marry because of family obligations, a 
few congratulated him, others shrugged their shoul¬ 
ders as if not caring to prophecy as to the outcome. 
Jones was fine of soul, keen of brain, common of 
birth. A difficult trinity of endowments to har¬ 
monize. 

Bertha did not like his friends, they understood 
her too well. She had set to work to become indis¬ 
pensable to Jones, preclude his ever knowing any¬ 
one else. To do so, she had begun subtly yet per¬ 
sistently to impress upon him the fact of all she 
jeopardized in order to become his pal. She re¬ 
gretted she had had to admit former indiscretion in 
order to foster the alliance! But she never referred to 
it. Bertha’s material greed was appeased. Coupled 
with this greed was a parasitical element which, like 
the daughter of a peasant, was often paramount when 
in an American environment. She would not undergo 
the strain of hard work which she was fitted to 
undergo. A husband of her own kind would have 
imposed the hardships of housekeeping, child-bearing 
and rearing and she congratulated herself at escap¬ 
ing them. She still worked at the millinery trade— 
but only at half time. Indeed, she wished Jones 
would spend more time going to cheap theaters and 
restaurants or at the flat. She found him generous 
and a gentleman. He never knew Bertha was given 
to being “frowsy” when alone, unlovely of appear- 


UP AND COMING 


195 


ance, eating off a corner of the kitchen sink or en¬ 
joying impossible gossip with neighbors. When he 
was about, she was carefully dressed and adopted a 
sentimental, lonely air unless she drank and became 
hilarious. She made it a point to tell Jones that 
whatever she purchased cost at least twice its price. 
He never doubted her, which delighted Bertha since 
now she had a secret bank account. 

Poppy, who was to be married at Easter time, 
was undecided how to accept the change in events. 
She envied Bertha’s prosperity. She knew, as do 
women of her sort, this affair even enhanced Ber¬ 
tha’s ultimate opportunity for marriage. Bertha 
was having advantages! But Poppy secretly hoped 
Jones would fall in love and Bertha would learn of 
it and create havoc. Poppy would enjoy the result¬ 
ing warfare. She had made inquiries as to the 
Bynight family and, to her disappointment, found 
that Jones had told Bertha the truth. As yet, there 
was nothing to tattle. 

hope he don’t tire of you,” she said, shortly 
before her wedding, “if Fred or me get sore—we 
can tell our troubles to the court.” 

Bertha tossed her head. “As long as his mother 
lives, he’ll never look at anyone but me.” 

“His family don’t know how selfish they are, do 
they?” 

“Oh, I don’t call it that,” Bertha resented the 
criticism, “I guess they did enough for him—and it 
suits him, anyhow. Jones is queer—he is like two 
people in one, the man who is in business and with 


196 


UP AND COMING 


his family and the man who comes here. He likes 
being two people, I suppose. When he’s here, he 
forgets his worries and troubles. I see to that.” 

Poppy was examining the contents of a bookcase. 
^‘Lend me this,” she asked, selecting a sob-thriller, 
“my, you’ve a lot of books—but, say, Jones never 
tries to give you the handsome stuff he has in his 
own place—educated things, you know.” 

Bertha’s cheeks flushed. “I select my own stuff 
—if I wanted old brass and jade, I could have it. 
Didn’t I just tell you he likes to get away from 
business—my stuff amuses him.” 

“Wow!” said Poppy, “somebody’s peeved. I sup¬ 
pose you won’t stand up with me.” 

“I’ll stand up—and pity you,” Bertha conde¬ 
scended, “I wouldn’t trade places with a queen. I 
don’t see much in Fred and of all the Christmas 
presents you two exchanged—my, but Jones did 
laugh-” 

It was Poppy’s turn to flush. For she had given 
Fred a gold toothpick, she had won it at a public 
card party, and he had paid for having her hair 
permanently waved! Poppy knew Bertha had in¬ 
dustriously made Jones silk shirts, monogramming 
them in king’s blue while he had slipped a diamond 
solitaire on her finger which put to shame Poppy’s 
reconstructed ruby. 

“Well, forget it,” proposed that lady good- 
naturedly, in view of the wedding gift Jones prom¬ 
ised, “it’s live and let live in this world!” 



CHAPTER XXII 


Martha was struggling, unsuspected, to keep 
pace with present-day demands. Marian’s wedding 
had driven home the truth concerning her lacks. 
She came nome to study her son’s apartment, visit 
his beautiful store, meet his friends and watch his 
social activities only to realize she had no fitting 
place in them. People were polite but beyond dis¬ 
cussing the weather, they had nothing to say to her. 
She was no longer of importance because there was 
no more drudgery to do. She was slightly im¬ 
possible. 

Therefore, she must revive her once excellent 
mind, as well as manicure her nails, soften her voice 
and no longer be guilty of poking meat at markets 
to ascertain its tenderness. Her annoying habit of 
going about dressed in seconds must be broken—it 
displeased Jones who reminded her there was no 
need of doing so. Yet it was a hard habit to break, 
hard to know which clothes to buy, how to start 
new interests, win new friends yet not offend the 
old. She seemed socially pensioned, placed in a 
comfortable yet sidetracked position. He had 
owed his mother everything in the past—but 

197 


198 


UP AND COMING 


it was the present with which she wanted to be 
concerned. 

Would this come about? She entertained a senti¬ 
mental hurt about her plight, felt personally slighted 
and angered because the flippant gentlefolk played 
so much harder than they had ever worked and 
seemed to be quite the rage. Why should they 
escape toil and sacrifice? All very well for women 
who never ate breakfast before nine to age gra¬ 
ciously and be called a lovely dowager, radiant in 
plum-colored satins and lace of family history. But 
they could not have done so had they battled through 
Martha’s problems. There seemed a stigma in hav¬ 
ing to remember sifting ashes or going after ice 
in a dishpan because one could not afford regular 
tickets and an ice box! 

She had decided not to visit Marian until she had 
changed in manner. Her old friends puzzled her 
because their attitude seemed that of envy. Theirs 
was the standard of gaining from the rich—they 
could not comprehend her desire to be on an equal 
footing. 

“Can’t you get used to things, mater?” Jones 
would urge, when his mother wore shoes with run¬ 
down heels or forgot the finger bowls, “enjoy these 
things or else criticize them intelligently-” 

“I can’t, honey,” she would confess, “I know all 
your things are mighty fine—but I don’t understand 
them as I did my old truck.” 

Here would follow useless debate. 

Martha wrote Pat for toilet cosmetics and also 



UP AND COMING 


199 


bought a set of books, one of those hoaxes instituted 
by cheerful liars who claim to bring culture to the 
doorstep by paying two dollars down and a dollar 
per. She read the books industriously—and went 
to lectures unobserved, trying to acquire the manners 
of Jones’ friends. She attempted to neglect her 
grandson with proper hauteur but was conscious of 
failure. No one paid any heed to her progress— 
proof enough of its unimportance. 

At one time Jones’ friends sent their mothers and 
wives to call but the calls had been unendurable with 
Martha telling family secrets or expressing maternal 
pride in too ultra a fashion. ‘‘Just salt of the earth 
she is—and as true blue as Jones himself but im¬ 
possible. She does not play bridge or go in for 
social reform and I didn’t dare ask her to join the 
opera reading club. I’m sure I don’t know what she 
does. Perhaps she is orthodox in religion—her 
clothes would indicate it.” 

Yet her loneliness had become oppressive, the 
boredom of a domestic rut without responsibility or 
struggle was driving her to unwise avenues of es¬ 
cape. One afternoon she went to a matinee of the 
season’s most shocking play. She bought herself 
rouge and false curls and had a facial massage be¬ 
fore she did so. But many of the risque points 
escaped her and it was dreary to go alone. When 
she flaunted a new costume of a white satin waist 
and a striped black and white skirt with sapphire 
colored slippers to proclaim her individualistic tem¬ 
perament as the saleswoman assured her was the 


200 


UP AND COMING 


present rage, she perked up courage to return some 
of the calls. But she could see the people were 
amused by her and interested in Jones. She could 
not discuss his work intelligently, even pronounce 
some of the names. So, losing courage, she came 
home and laid aside the new costume and washed off 
the rouge, partly by tears, taking to her old clothes 
and buying paper roses for the hall table! 

Her inability to achieve seemed to destroy her 
bustling, cheery personality. In its place was a 
weary pessimist who realized she had been originally 
intended to the things her son had achieved. Had 
she been born in a different setting she might have 
become one of “Cornwairs gracious dowagers,” etc. 
Therein lay the deepest hurt. 

Jones did not perceive this melancholy. He was 
away much of the time and was always at his store’s 
command even when he came home. She was in¬ 
dignant that he worked so hard but he assured her, 
his conscience now well trained, that he was content. 

Before Poppy’s wedding Martha became imbued 
with cults, the last avenue of progress available. 
The fantastic world of psychic phenomena won her 
attention, lent her a sense of superiority. She bought 
endless books upon spirit phenomena and medium- 
ship, the persual of which caused her to forget her 
social defeat. 

It was not long before Martha believed she was a 
medium. She had a ouija board and also endeavored 
to obtain spirit rappings. She gained nothing of 
import from these efforts any more than from au- 


UP AND COMING 


201 


tomatic writings but it afforded personal satisfac¬ 
tion. Jones was ignorant of what was transpiring 
until he could not but be confronted with spiritualis¬ 
tic literature no matter which way he turned. 

He finally hauled out the ouija board in derision. 
‘‘I say, mother, you are coming on,” was his opinion, 
‘‘what nonsense! Better re-read Dickens or take 
lessons in symbolic dancing, anything but this,” the 
fact of Poppy’s aunt, palpably a fraud, added to his 
disapproval. He often felt it a hardship to endure 
Bertha’s friends. 

Martha enlightened him as to her powers. ‘‘You 
should not laugh at what is a sincere belief,” she 
reproved, “at least, it gives me an interest—and I 
am quite on my own resources.” 

Jones felt remorse. “That is so, shall we do a 
theater a week from now on—say on Wednesdays? 
It will do you good, you’ve had the boy so much 
and me a constant runaway. No wonder you felt 
spooks were better comrades than your own family. 
But I warn you, there is nothing to be gained from 
it.” 

“Do you deny there is spirit communication after 
what we name as death?” 

“Not at all but I deny that we have as yet estab¬ 
lished it to be a scientific fact—or that it would 
count for overly much if we did so. Fraud and mor¬ 
bid hallucinations combine to make spiritualists. No 
healthy minded persons wish to call back the dead.” 

Martha was silent. 

“Not that I want to discourage you, only it isn’t 


202 


UP AND . COMING 


wise/’ he added, ^‘by the way, as soon as I can get 
time, Pm going to build a house on the outskirts— 
at Hillside—about a two-acre lawn and garden and 
a homey lodge. That will banish fobias—when you 
dig in your garden and listen to the chickens crow. 
We are crowded here, I want a studio room on the 
third floor of my house.” 

‘‘Are you going back to painting?” 

“No, start the art journal as soon as Hamlin will 
see it. As I’m to be editor I want my ‘brain cell’ 
at home. Then we must have a huge living room 
where a life-sized fireplace feels at home—lots of 
rooms and things. I have been talking with an archi¬ 
tect, he is going to draw plans. Your rooms shall be 
just as you say, so begin deciding about what you 
are going to want.” 

“It seems foolish to have a country house for two 
people,” was her objection, “even if the boy stays 
with us. I want you to save money.” 

But Jones would not listen. If a person wished 
a houseboat on the Nile, a California bungalow and 
a New York brownstone front—they should have 
them all was his argument. For himself, he was 
weary of apartments and dumb waiters and a com¬ 
posite smell of cookery. He wanted to be able to 
have week-end guests as well as week-end retirements 
from the world. At any rate, he was going to build! 

As for spiritualism—a bas! The next day he sent 
up some new novels and arranged for her to drive 
with her grandson every afternoon. 

“Dear boy,” Martha thought, “it has come to be 


UP AND COMING 


203 


his giving and my taking, it was easier when I gave 
and he accepted.” 

Unbeknownst to him she continued her interest in 
spiritualism. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


PopPY^s wedding was a gay affair with Poppy’s 
aunt in anything but a trance as she exclaimed over 
Jones’ gift of an oriental rug and drank his cham¬ 
pagne. Jones was amused. He found that Bertha’s 
friends accepted him as one of them, with polite 
lack of explanations concerning his attitude towards 
Bertha. As long as he remained a benefactor to all, 
they would be “more fool than wise man to ask. 
questions” Fred Flynn had argued. 

As soon as was polite, Jones and Bertha left the 
wedding party to return to Bertha’s flat, in a small, 
east side apartment house, the tenants of which kept 
rather to themselves. 

“It is more fun to be alone,” Bertha flattered as 
she began to get supper, “didn’t Poppy look old 
when the sun streamed in on her face? Well, sir, 
what shall it be—steak or omelette?” She tied an 
apron about her costume of white silk with its 
scarlet leather panels for contrast. 

“Omelette, but come talk to me first,” he suggested. 
He had taken an easy chair by the window. “You’re 
worth a dozen Poppies—I’m not hopeful as to Fred’s 
future peace of mind, his wife is inclined to be a 

204 


UP AND COMING 


205 


shrew. I don’t believe they’ll be as good pals as we 
are,” he tried to draw her down onto his knee. 

Bertha refused. “But they’re not playing with 
each other,” was her unexpected objection, “it is 
solemn to stand up before a minister and promise 
things. We didn’t.” 

“We promised each other,” he refuted, “you look 
very handsome this evening; of course you never 
suspected such a thing, did you?” 

“Those promises would be a lot of use if we didn’t 
chose to keep them,” ignoring the compliment, 
“sometimes I’m awfully mad at you because you 
think I’m just at your beck and call—you don’t tell 
me anything that would make me different— 
smarter,” she struggled to explain, “you never con¬ 
fide about business or what you’re reading or think¬ 
ing. I’m no fool.” 

“I thought I did the things you liked—you said 
so. 

“Maybe you do. That fool wedding makes me 
feel queer,” her heavy brows were scowling in a 
straight line, “I felt such an outsider, as if I had 
wasted all my chances. I wouldn’t have felt that 
way,” suddenly kneeling beside him, “if I hadn’t 
learned to like you awfully well. I liked you well 
enough when we met but not as I do now—I’m 
afraid I was thinking more about what you would 
give me than about yourself. Today, it came over 
me all of a sudden that I liked you—and I was jeal¬ 
ous because you didn’t share your real thoughts with 
me—there, you know! Oh, Jones, promise you’ll 


2o6 


UP AND COMING 


never go back on what you said—it would hurt like 
the very devil,” giving way to heavy sobs. 

“Are you getting up a scene because Poppy is 
married?” his tone was unconcerned, slightly dis¬ 
pleased. He lit a cigar. 

“It makes me realize that I care for you like 
Poppy ought to care for Fred but doesn’t and that 
she is married and I’m not and it ain’t fair. It never 
pays to get crazy about a man, but I’ve done it 
again.” 

Jones forced her to kiss him. “I like you,” he 
answered, “there’s nothing to worry about. Now 
you are going to make the best omelette in the world 
and watch me eat the biggest share of it.” 

He was amazed at his own displeasure, as unsus¬ 
pected on his part as had been Bertha’s love declara¬ 
tion. 

“See here, tears are no fair,” he began walking 
up and down, wishing he were out of the place. 
Would she never stop crying—and cook his omelette 
—or must she keep on enjoying melodrama during 
which he would reveal further unworthy masculine 
depths ? What sort of an insincere beast was he ? 

Bertha hesitated; struggling between the feminine 
desire to win tender pledges and the mundane knowl¬ 
edge that an omelette served with coffee and kisses 
would win her an Easter bonnet, she went towards 
the kitchen door, turning to watch his promenade. 

“Here goes for the omelette,” she announced, “I 
guess Mrs. Templeton’s spooks must have followed 
me home.” 


UP AND COMING 


207 


Despite this tearyful post-wedding episode Jones 
found satisfaction in the affair. It proved a never- 
failing safety valve for nerves and overworked brain. 
Bertha, meantime, had her new Easter hat and a 
silver mesh bag besides. She saw to it that Jones 
became almost sentimental over the exquisitely made 
handkerchiefs with odd silk monograms. 

“These mean a lot of time and eyesight,” he 
praised, “I must appreciate them. You’re a fine sort, 
Bertha—let’s go to the theater to celebrate.” 

“Splendid,” she agreed, coming over to rest her 
gypsy head on his arm, one strong hand reaching up 
to rumple his hair. “You’re a nice boy,” she mur¬ 
mured, “I hate to see that line growing between your 
eyebrows because Mrs. Templeton says a phrenolo¬ 
gist or some such bug told her it meant a bad temper 
—you haven’t one, have you? I’m the person to 
hurl rolling pins,” laughing at the truthful admission. 

They were at Bertha’s flat, Jones having excused 
himself from a family dinner and evening. 

“You don’t know me,” he warned, kissing her, “if 
I ever got started. I’m afraid I’d match the rolling 
pin with a battle-axe. That line means I need 
stronger glasses, some of my work is so damnably 
fine.” 

“I suppose,” she stood back, her hands on her 
hips in gypsy style. 

“Come on, what is it now ? Let’s settle all scores,” 
he teased. 

“Why don’t you ever ask me to appreciate your 
art stuff?” she asked. “Your mother doesn’t know 


208 


UP AND COMING 


any more about jade and parchments and tapestries 
than I do—you said she didn’t. I suppose you treat 
her like a queen when she comes to see your dis¬ 
plays.” 

“Let us leave her out of this,” his tone suggested 
finality. 

But Bertha swept on. “Not that Pm gone on the 
things you deal in—if they are hi-brow, gimme the 
half-wit furnishings. But I don’t like being 
snubbed. You don’t want me to come and exclaim 
over your sacred stock. Suppose I came anyway— 
how would you treat me?” 

“I’d be happy to see you,” furious at himself for 
getting into the box. “Only, why come? Because 
of a jealous desire to dominate? You think I don’t 
understand? You know part of me, Bertha, 
and my family another part and the store a third 
—quite a dissected old party! Each personality 
is quite removed from the other—so why infringe? 
Why not ask why I don’t ask you to club smokers 
or directors’ meetings ? Aren’t we too good pals to 
have unpleasant ripples? Why pick flaws in what 
ought to be satisfactory to both of us?” Jones was 
polite but his voice betrayed an alarming indiffer¬ 
ence. 

Bertha admired his decision. She wanted things 
with the intensity of a stupid child who cries for 
the moon but does not take into account that said 
moon would be of no use if she could have it. 

“I hate to feel out of things,” was her protest, 
giving way to the age-old weapon—tears. “You 


UP AND COMING 


209 


got the climbing habit when you were young—that’s 
the only reason you’re so far ahead of me now. I 
was too cowed to have it. Sometimes I’m awfully 
blue for fear I’ll grow old and be all alone—you have 
friends and assured position. I don’t say it right, 
only I’m darned unhappy some days and damned 
happy others,” she ended with characteristic bois¬ 
terousness. 

“Oh—the roast is burning,” she cried a moment 
later, darting away. 

Jones did not applaud her return to good-nature. 
He was appreciative of the coming roast, the warm 
room with it’s bright comforts—pots of flowers she 
coaxed into blooming, a cage of birds which were 
her chief pride. He realized that this setting and 
his right to come and go at will contributed in a 
sense to his being a success as had his mother’s early 
struggles, college days, Hamlin’s patronage. All 
part of the mosaic! This compromise of knowing 
Bertha was like, his lip curled in scorn, a wild animal 
taken from the jungle and placed in a zoo with 
painted scenery of his native habitat and a chunk of 
raw beef as compromises. So with Bertha and her 
flat as compared to Jones’ real dreams of a home. 
There still lingered a confused longing for things of 
tender dimensions. Had he been able to marry— 
but why debate the impossible ? Always there would 
be the triple role—the art dealer, his mother’s faith¬ 
ful son, Bertha’s pal. At times it seemed an unfair 
tangle, again a fairly satisfactory division of life 
interests. 


14 


210 


UP AND COMING 


But at this moment he began realizing that Bertha 
was not an easily silenced person. She hummed as 
she moved about to finish her dinner. The ‘‘brain 
storm’^ as she said had passed, leaving her unusually 
light hearted. Poppy and Fred were coming to 
dinner after which they were to go to a theater. 
Why worry about tomorrow ? Tra-la-la. She must 
see the gravy was thick as Jones liked—tumty-tum- 
tum—Poppy would envy her new frock of slashed 
black and red satin panels—ta-ta-ta—a lot she cared 
for art stores and goodygoody mothers who thought 
themselves the sum total of their son’s existence— 
ta-tra-la. . . . 

Watching her through the half opened door, Jones 
was impressed with her gypsy similarity. But a 
gypsy must be young and virile or picturesquely old 
and ugly, there was no charming middle stage of 
mental and spiritual youth—and Bertha was doomed 
to become picturesquely old! 

The doorbell rang just then to announce the 
Flynns and Jones forgot unpleasant speculations be¬ 
cause of the excellence of the roast and gravy. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Martha’s efforts having met without success, she 
ceased striving to know people beyond a surface ac¬ 
quaintance. She was Jones Bynight’s mother, de¬ 
serving of courtesy. These same persons who 
cultivated her son would have regarded her with 
scorn had she, per se, tried to become intimate. 

*‘The only person who thinks I’m important is 
little Owen,” she told herself after reading one of 
Marian’s dutiful letters which dilated on the thril¬ 
ling subject of making popovers from sour milk. 
*Tt won’t be long before he’ll call grandma an old 
fuss. I hope Pat sends for him.” 

She began darning Jones’ gloves. As she did so, 
she recalled how many times she had patched and 
darned—almost woven—to make her little brood 
comfortable. What hard yet splendid years those 
were. One did not wear an afternoon gown of wis¬ 
teria satin and sit in a drawing room to entertain 
callers. True enough—but after the callers were 
gone and one re-read their names on bits of glossy 
cardboard, it meant nothing to her. Not as much 
as her name had meant to them—for they could 
criticize and debate as to Mrs. Bynight while she 
was disinterested, uninformed. 

Those other days when apple sauce for dessert 


2 II 


212 


UP AND COMING 


was cause for family rejoicing and Martha wore 
her husband’s old hats to do the backyard work, she 
had had worth-while callers who came at odd, unan¬ 
nounced hours. They came because of distress or to 
share some joy. Perhaps it was only a new kind of 
preserve. Or they needed advice, her brave view 
of life and duty. They wore gingham dresses, these 
other callers, and sat in kitchen chairs and sometimes 
they leaned tired, bewildered heads down on the 
table, as they sobbed out their errand. But it had 
been splendid as contrasted with this evaporated, 
polite hypocrisy of “so glad to come” and “charmed, 

Mrs. Bynight-” Ah, Martha had mattered that 

other time. Even if her husband was sleeping off 
the effect of last night’s beer and Pat wailed for new 
finery while Marian scolded because it was not quiet 
enough for her to study, Jones, bless his heart, saw¬ 
ing away at kindling in the shed—it had been splen¬ 
did. She enjoyed being “at home” those days. 

Take this dread of going to affairs, stepping 
timidly down the receiving line to stutter her bromi- 
dic greeting and retire with the other nonenities 
until she might make good her escape. Or accom¬ 
panying Jones to some function where he felt she 
must go, Jones being pathetically chivalrous no 
matter what her remarks. 

How different had been her going out of old. Say 
helping the Sweeneys move by hand at night, thus 
escaping a tyrant landlord—pushing a cart contain¬ 
ing their kitchen tins through an alley only to come 
into clanging collision with a handcart pushed by the 



UP AND COMING 


213 


head of the Steinmetz family who were doing like¬ 
wise—each certain doom had sounded! 

Or that breathless trip to the Waverly household 
to establish herself as head nurse during the night 
the oldest boy died. Or finding a bargain special 
which would be of great use to the family, return¬ 
ing home with renewed courage for having done so. 
Hers had been the happy consciousness of helping 
in the affairs of men—as she helped her son to be¬ 
come a member of the Century Club and to wear his 
tuxedo with the ease she had worn her aprons. Small 
wonder that Martha now turned to psychic fields for 
her solace I 

Jones regarded this spiritualistic trend with indul¬ 
gence. He did not recognize it as an admission of 
social defeat. It had been clear ever since that first 
visit at college that his mother would not change. 
As stable as were her virtues—so was her provin¬ 
cialism. 

When, nearly a year after Poppy’s wedding, 
Martha betook herself to Mrs. Templeton’s for a 
private sitting, her name having been recommended 
at a public meeting, Jones found cause to regret he 
had not surpressed his mother’s psychic desires at 
the outset. 

Sitting in the Templeton parlor, the medium being 
engaged, Martha studied the contents of the color¬ 
ful room with a tolerant air. She realized how 
much she had come on for she knew these things to 
be wretched of quality and taste. Not even in the 
days of living with Sophia would she have selected 


214 


UP AND COMING 


them. Somehow, it jarred her faith in the medium. 
This was the first cheaply priced faker she had ven¬ 
tured forth to see. There was no pressing question 
she wished decided, hers was a craving for a larger 
intellectual life with the sop of pretending communi¬ 
cation with such shades as Shakespeare and Milton. 

Glancing back of her chair, she rose to take a 
framed photograph from the wall—a wedding group 
of Poppy and her husband and their attendants, 
Jones and a strange girl. A shiver ran through her. 
Something warned her this picture was significant. 
Something in Bertha’s smiling face turned towards 
her son horrified and maddened her. Why was he 
in this group? Why had she never heard of it? 
How many times had he excused himself from stay¬ 
ing home for his dinner—how gay he seemed—and 
what a common person this was, studying Bertha’s 
countenance. 

The folding doors scraped back to disclose Mrs. 
Templeton, resplendent in satin, waddling forth to 
welcome Martha. 

She had replaced the picture and assumed a dis¬ 
interested air before this happened. Then she was 
ushered into the room of the departed shades to sit 
in suspense while Mrs. Templeton rambled on with 
the customary phrases: “the dear old man with 
whiskers~do you recognize him ?” “The dear little 
child who has been for years in the spirit land—do 
you recognize him or her?” “Is the name of Mary 
or John familiar—ah, lady, you could be a great 
medium if you would but develop!” 


.UP AND COMING 


215 


At last the folding doors scraped back to release 
her and allow her to place a silver offering in Mrs. 
Templeton’s palm. Martha’s eyes kept gazing at 
the wedding group, this unwelcome reality had 
cleared her mental field as to psychic delusion. Life 
was still impelling, one did not have to take to trance 
mediums to become thrilled. 

“Ain’t that a sweet picture? I notice you seem 
taken with it—it is my niece and her husband and a 
lovely man she got, too. They were married in this 
very room—see—right between the front win¬ 
dows-” 

“How nice,” Martha knew she was flushing, “and 

the others-” Her boy’s eyes seemed live, guilty 

things, “are they relatives?” 

“That is Poppy’s chum, Bertha Mullen, a fine girl, 
too, she will make somebody a good wife. The 
man,” Mrs. Templeton simpered with pride, “is one 
of our city celebrities—manager of the Hamlin art 
store—smart as a whip, been through college and 
traveled in the orient and everything—he’s one 
grand fellow,” she sighed. 

“Oh, yes,” Martha said weakly, “his name is-” 

“Jones Bynight—queer, ain’t it? He gave Poppy 
the most elegant oriental rug—for its small size 
you’d hardly believe the price. Of course they was 
glad but Poppy said she’d have rather had a couple 
of big rugs, seeing everything else she had was dif¬ 
ferent from the oriental. Still, she can sell it any 
time she likes, a man told her husband so. It seems 
the older them rugs gets, the crazier folks is for 





2 i6 


UP AND COMING 


them—do you understand it ?’^ Her talent for read¬ 
ing into the souls of men evidently did not detect 
the mental upheaval taking place with her client. 

“It is strange,” Martha heard herself saying. 

No one else waiting, Mrs. Templeton waxed 
talkative. “I like Mr. Bynight myself—^he thinks 
a lot of Bertha and does a lot for her, too, a little 
too much. Pm saying. Him being what he is and 
she just a milliner and alone in the world. You 
know how people talk,” in a stage whisper. 

“What is it he does for her?” Martha demanded. 

“Well, I couldn’t just say—only she dresses fine 
and they go to the theater a lot. Poppy and Fred eat 
supper at Bertha’s flat every week regular. Poppy 
tells me all this—and I hear that he is just grand 
to his own family, too. They used to be poor as 
church mice and he has worked his way up. But 
I think Bertha sort of forgets that she ought to have 
a regular understanding with him, a girl must watch 
out these days, isn’t that so, lady?” 

“Yes, indeed,” Martha wondered if she could leave 
the room without betraying herself. 

“Try to come on Tuesday evening—just a small 
circle—wonderful results. You’ve great talent your¬ 
self, lady, if you’d only develop-” 

Martha fled. All the way home she debated what 
to do, seek out Bertha Mullen and demand some 
explanation of her or ask her son? What did it 
mean? Why had he formed a cheap alliance, he, 
who abhorred any evidence of cheapness, who criti¬ 
cized every detail of his household without reserve? 




UP AND COMING 


217 


Then to find him in a wedding group as the escort 
of a milliner! 

Reaching home, she came to no decision. But 
there was word from Pat that she wanted Owen. 
She had an apartment and had arranged for help. 
She felt she had left her son long enough, her mother 
had done quite enough for both of them, she hoped 
she would understand and prove that she did by 
bringing Owen to Chicago herself, then they could 
have a satisfactory visit. Martha would see she 
was able to care for the boy. 

Martha tossed the letter aside, relieved this was 
to be. It was time, treasure that he was, that he 
went to his mother. Perhaps she had given up too 
much for his interests, neglected Jones, a possible 
cause for this affair! . Martha’s attention was 
focused on Bertha Mullen, not on the losing of her 
grandson. Incidentally, she abandoned psychic re¬ 
search. 

The maid told her Mr. Bynight would not be home 
for dinner. 

“I wish nothing,” Martha said sternly, “give 
Owen his supper and get him off to sleep—I have a 
headache.” 

She must wait hours before he returned—returned 
from taking this Bertha Mullen to the theater per¬ 
haps ! Furies were roused in Martha’s mild self. 
She must save Jones from Bertha—the reformer 
and the mother in her were united in purpose. Life 
was interesting once more, even if tragic. Triviali¬ 
ties vanished as she opened her Bible and then prayed 


2 i8 


UP AND COMING 


in the old way for things to happen which had no 
possible excuse for happening and for things not to 
happen which were inevitable! 

Jones came home at midnight to find his mother 
as stern as a presiding magistrate. 

“My dear,” he began, “what is wrong—the boy— 
the girls-” 

She shook her head. His actual presence delayed 
the outburst. She was timid of demanding details 
of his personal life, a proper reticence resulted. 

“Pat has sent for Owen, she has a woman as 
housekeeper and a small apartment. Pat needs the 
boy and he ought to know his mother. Of course 
I shall miss him but I am not sorry my responsi¬ 
bility has ended.” 

“Then why are you staring at me with eyes like 
saucers and cheeks aflame?” Jones tossed off his 
coat and walked from the room, returning in a man¬ 
darin coat of dragon embroidered splendor. “By 
jove, Fm tired—the thing was a bore—a club smoker 
always is. Men are as great gossips as women, you 
should hear them when they get together.” 

“It is something else—I don’t want to pry, only 
you’ve always told me everything, haven’t you?” 

“Naturally—and always will,” he was so sincere 
Martha wondered if this could be some unfair hallu¬ 
cination. 

“Something has come to me that-” 

“Some gossipy ghost who says I’ll die young or 
raise side whiskers?” 

“Oh, it is real,” she said suddenly, “and I’m afraid 






UP AND COMING 


219 


unwise—I can’t bear not having known, being shut 
out of your life-” 

“Then what is it?” he asked, irritated beyond 
politeness. 

“Bertha Mullen.” 

Jones sank back in his chair. “Oh,” he said in a 
dreary tone, shading his eyes with a powerful, pinky 
hand, “just Bertha!” He waited for his mother 
to proceed. 

As she explained, she felt a sense of shame—for 
having discovered the situation. Jones seemed 
such a tired innocent as he sat listening, his eyes 
protected from observation. After all, what con¬ 
cern was it of hers ? 

“It seemed as if you might have mentioned her,” 
she ended, “told of the wedding—it hurt to find that 
picture, an intimate group, hanging on a medium’s 
parlor wall. And all she said—perhaps I don’t 
make myself clear-” 

“Perfectly clear,” he dropped his hand and re¬ 
vealed angry eyes that stared accusingly. “I am 
sorry you made Bertha’s acquaintance in such a 
roundabout way, it was my fault.” Since his mother 
was cognizant of the affair, he must coat it with a 
veneer of propriety. He could never hurt her. She 
could not understand—rather, she would refuse to 
do so. Martha reached her intellectual limitations 
long before her children were “doing well” as she 
called it. She was like Mahomet’s coffin as far as 
such progress, suspended between heaven and earth. 
Those on earth desiring communication must reach 




220 


UP AND COMING 


up on tiptoe to her and those in heaven must stoop 
down. 

Like many women who have known life at first 
hand, Martha inconsistently refused to believe the 
truth about her own son. Jones was mentally and 
spiritually apprehended by his mother but as far as 
human nature went, she was stubbornly blind. Jones 
was different from other men—he had always been 
different, he did not care for the things most men 
did. His life was happily and completely occupied 
with worthy interests. 

Realizing this, as well as realizing that half-truths 
are always difficult to refute, Jones added calmly: 

“I do not care for the Flynns or Mrs. Templeton, 
they were Bertha’s friends, so I am polite as I am to 
your old friends. As for my doing much for Bertha 
—that is true. She is a nice sort of working girl 
whose company I enjoy, a contrast to other things 
I am obliged to endure.” 

Martha’s eyes filled with tears. She asked herself 
wherein she had failed, had she not been her son’s 
companion, why must a cheap working girl step be¬ 
tween them ? 

“She is not the kind I would expect you to select,” 
she said bitterly, “you who think your mother im¬ 
possible at times—oh, I notice your little frowns and 
looks when I make mistakes in society—you who 
have made this apartment a thing of artistic achieve¬ 
ment—even Mr. Hamlin says it would be worthy of 
a showcase—and then to take up with that sort!” 

Jones leaned forward. “Have you ever thought?” 


221 


UP AND COMING 

< 

he began impulsively, ^*that IVe done everything you 
and the girls asked me to do—gladly—and as I’m a 
supposedly sane man of mature years, given up the 
thing that I longed to do. I’ve the right to do some¬ 
thing I want without holding a family council ? I’m 
not angry,” more gently as he saw the annoying 
tears and realized how alike women were—Bertha 
cried, too when she feared defeat, “but I’m honest. 
If I choose to know a girl such as I’d want to marry, 
you would be more distressed than because I know 
Bertha—yes, you would—you’d soon realize that she 
would take your place, rob you of your authority— 
make me feel differently towards you no matter 
what I intended. You’ve created such a precious 
place in my scheme of things, no one shall ever usurp 
it. And so—I chose Bertha for a recreation. 
Others might have become golf fiends or globe trot¬ 
ters, more polite pastimes. Bertha amuses me—she 
also knows I do not intend to marry.” 

Martha felt more kindly toward the milliner, a 
trifle guilty. 

“Whenever Bertha wants to marry—she can do so 
with my blessing,” he added, “that is all there is 
to it. I saw no particular reason to rush home and 
tell you. I’ve been drunk a good many times but I 
didn’t tattle on myself. I’ve lost money gambling, 
made love to women far cheaper than Bertha—and 
will probably do all three again but it is my own con- 
fcern. You need not worry or pray about it. All 
sons and a good many husbands do likewise. Most 
mothers and wives prefer not to know about it and 


222 


UP AND COMING 


it is as wise as any conclusion they could arrive at, 
I presume. It is also my concern to keep your place 
unmolested, supreme. Incidentally, I’ll have you 
meet Bertha—sometime. She’s nice enough—fond 
of the green plush side of life. And is this all that 
has kept you up until midnight?” 

^‘It seemed sufficient to keep me up—but you are 
probably right,” Martha felt there was nothing more 
to say. She was ashamed to admit that she pre¬ 
ferred his knowing Bertha than to marry some well- 
bred girl who would see that she was politely exiled. 
She still told herself that her son was different from 
other men. He did need contrast and whatever kind 
it happened to be, she was certain he had decided 
wisely. How wrong had been her snap judgment. 

^‘Only why did you never tell me?” was her final 
straw of reproach. 

“I was afraid you would not understand,” was 
the inane answer. 

“I always try to understand-” 

“I was afraid you would try too hard,” Jones was 
ironical in spite of himself. 

Martha rose. ‘‘I don’t want you to feel you must 
not marry because of your mother,” she said bravely. 

“I’m not interested in marriage,” was the brusque 
assurance. 

Martha kissed him good night. “You are a splen¬ 
did son,” she praised, “I wonder if this girl appre¬ 
ciates you!” 

“Immensely,” he laughed, “now don’t appear for 
breakfast, seeing that I’ve robbed you of decent 



UP AND COMING 


223 


sleep—and don’t give things another thought,” 
gently, he led her from the room. 

Coming back, he flung himself into his chair and 
lighted another cigar. “Thank heavens, that is 
done,” he told himself, frowning, “or is it done?” 
He kept lighting matches and blowing them out, for¬ 
getful of his cigar. “Is anything ever done and does 
anyone ever tell the entire truth to anyone about any¬ 
thing—would it be good taste if they did?” It 
seemed as if he could conjugate the situation to a 
nicety: “The truth should be told, is going to be 
told, must be told—but never is told.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


The next few days found Jones irritable, not 
wishing to see either Bertha or his mother. He was 
glad that she decided to take the boy to Pat. He 
bundled them into a drawing room with plenty of 
arguments as to why she should stay as long as she 
liked. 

The subject of Bertha had not been mentioned 
again, it was one of those subjects taboo in the 
family circle. Bertha was “quite all right” and 
Jones “knew his own business best.” Martha’s con¬ 
science was clear because she told Jones she did not 
wish to stand in the way of his marriage. She, too, 
was glad of the trip which gave her an amazing num¬ 
ber of things to disapprove and yet be interested con¬ 
cerning—with Pat’s lovely although highly rouged 
self paramount in the list. She found Pat to be 
quite capable of taking care of her own and her son’s 
destinies and really enjoying “this snatch with 
mother” because it was but temporary. 

During her absence Jones enjoyed the solitude of 
his apartment. Martha’s personality was removed, 
although he missed her, paradoxical as it seemed. 
He gave some dinner parties he had long wanted to 
have—the guests being the “socially washed” as his 
mother loved to term them. 




224 


UP AND COMING 


225 


They exclaimed over Jones’ taste in possessions 
and enjoyed the evening unmarred by someone not 
of their exact tempo, probably a thousand times 
more worthy in a thousand different ways. 

“You wonderful bachelor,” said one flapper in 
leaving, “what a temptation you are—you’ll have 
the debutantes in an uproar!” 

“We want more parties,” the men told him, “a 
fine little box you have—dog-in-the-manger never 
to ask us. Don’t you like us when we gasp with 
pleasure?” 

“Naturally—but I’ve had a young nephew here 
until lately—and my mother is not well. Therefore, 
the club affairs. But we’ll have many parties, never 
fear,” hating himself for the excuses. 

Owen’s erstwhile nursery he made into a studio- 
office. The time to start the art journal was near 
at hand. During this happy interlude he was missed 
by Bertha; she suspected him of waning interest and 
dispatched reproachful letters each day and tele¬ 
phoned him at inconvenient intervals. 

Her last hysterical phone call brought the promise 
of his coming to the flat that same evening—at a per¬ 
sonal sacrifice. He wanted to revel in a long even¬ 
ing of uninterrupted reading. But Bertha had said 
the Flynns were coming over to play cards and it 
would “look queer” if he stayed away. Would he 
bring some imported cheese—she had everything 
else necessary for the lunch menu? 

That afternoon Jones was guilty of his first dis¬ 
honesty in business. A woman whose husband had 

IS 


226 


UP AND COMING 


more money than “was decent” as her intimate 
friends declared, purchased a modern brass stork 
under the guise of its being an antique and Jones, 
in whom she had “explicit confidence” allowed her 
to do so, crediting the store with several hundred per 
cent profit and himself with being a thief! 

As he was not quite square with his mother or 
Bertha and incidentally, himself, he was reacting 
accordingly in his business. He despised himself 
for the trick, even if the customer never became 
cognizant of the fraud. He went into Hamlin’s 
office the latter part of the afternoon and confessed 
the happening. 

“I don’t like that,” Hamlin said quietly, his blind 
eyes seeming reproachful. 

“No more do I. She accepted it as an antique 
from the time she saw it, felt flattered at her ability 
to so discern the thing. I let it go. I can’t retract 
it but I’ll never have such a thing happen again. I’m 
tired of selling and buying and buying and selling— 
I wish I didn’t have to hear the words: ‘How much’ 
for a year! Everything gets on my nerves. I’m like 
a fussy old woman who gains her pleasure through 
petty meanness.” 

Hamlin put a hand on Jones’ arm to “see” wherein 
lay the trouble. “Try a vacation,” he suggested. 

“Can’t just now—I’m to do Europe for you in the 
winter. Funny how a thing like the brass sale can 
upset a fellow, yet he stubbornly refuses to make 
it right. I actually gloated over it at the time.” 

Hamlin’s fingers drummed softly on his desk. 


UP AND COMING 


227 


“IVe been deciding about the art journal project,” 
as if the other matter had not been mentioned, “you 
still are keen for it—you realize that when you 
become a critic you must forego popularity?” 

Jones dropped into a chair and began explaining 
his enthusiasm. An hour later, the store being 
closed, the watchman shuffling by, Hamlin said, 
“Then we will call it settled—my car is waiting, 
shall I wheel you up home?” 

“A go it is, sir,” Jones answered joyously, “Fve 
a stack of articles as high as our stack of choice rugs 
—all waiting to be written. I don’t need any vaca¬ 
tion now.” 

“So I thought,” Hamlin was leaving the room in 
his deft fashion. “How about riding up home— 
stay to dinner, if you like?” 

The enthusiasm left Jones’ voice. “I’m going the 
opposite way, sir.” 

“You don’t seem overly joyous at the prospect,” 
the blind man retorted. 

Jones bought the imported cheese and went 
up to the flat, he was early so he could explain 
why he must not remain for the evening, an impor¬ 
tant bit of business furnished the excuse—that it was 
to be his art journal would mean little or nothing to 
Bertha. 

He found her looking quite charming in her 
favorite red and black costume, her hair aglitter with 
rhinestone studded combs. To his excuses and ex¬ 
planations, Bertha burst into an abusive tirade. He 
made her appear the fool, these people would say 


228 


UP AND COMING 


he was ashamed of her, unless he chose to stay and 
behave like a true pal. He was no better than she, 
if he would kindly remember, his grandfather was 
a laborer—hers was a farmer. She could have mar¬ 
ried well, if she had wanted to—he owed her a duty 
for taking her time and interest without proper re¬ 
ward. 

Jones did not realize that Bertha’s capacity for 
suffering could be appeased by a gift, whereas his 
distress was ended only when the wrong was righted. 
So another conflict entered his life. Hereafter, he 
must bear with Bertha, she felt he had wronged her, 
had not kept his bargain in the strict sense of the 
word. She was attached to him—he must not throw 
her aside. 

During the unpleasant verbal turmoil, he was con¬ 
scious of his desire to enjoy success without the 
presence of she who unselfishly brought it to pass or 
the handicap of such a one as Bertha. 

But she did not prevail on him to remain. He 
promised to come soon and spend an evening, take 
her wherever she liked but for now, he must go, 
Bertha saw she had lost. The guests would soon 
arrive and she must not appear red-eyed. Poppy 
had stirred her suspicions, made Bertha fancy her¬ 
self abused. Poppy flattering herself she could help 
Bertha “land him.” 

She adopted the hurt, distant mien until Jones dis¬ 
appeared and then burst into humming as she put 
the last touches to the supper table. She told herself 
the next thing to accomplish, since the presence of 


UP AND COMING 


229 


friends did not make Jones realize the extent of his 
being involved, was to meet Mrs. Bynight. To know 
a man’s mother—well, that put things on a different 
basis. 

Coming home that same evening, Jones found 
Martha’s detailed letter and a package from a New 
York art dealer who had instructions to ship any¬ 
thing out of the ordinary to Jones personally; after 
passing judgment on it, he either returned or placed 
the canvas in the sales gallery. Jones’ test of an im¬ 
portant picture was that of the oriental. He ate 
his meals, looking at it for a week or so. When an¬ 
other canvas took its place, he knew his estimate of 
the former subject in definite fashion. Martha 
never understood this habit. How could one tell if 
they liked a picture ‘‘when their mouths were full,” 
she argued! 

Unwrapping this last study, reluctant to supplant 
the present landscape under observation, a study in 
delicate, intricate cliffs, the arrival proved a portrait 
of someone called Justine—a girl with an odd, clever 
face, blue black hair dressed in a close Egyptian 
coiffure, triangular jade pins standing out like pea¬ 
cock feathers. Her black eyelashes were so long 
they cast a shadow over the pale face. She wore an 
exotic, exclamatory sort of gown and was sur¬ 
rounded by smart looking tea-things. 

Jones enjoyed hanging the picture to his satis¬ 
faction. As he stood looking at it, new ideas for 
the magazine began to shape themselves. He felt 
as if Justine, whoever she was, would understand. 


230 


UP AND COMING 


It would not take a week’s probation to determine 
this portrait’s worth. Jones felt an urge to buy it 
for his own collection. How calm she was, a little 
patrician grown careless of the fact. How quick 
w’ould be her wit, how high her ideals. He wished 
she was not pouring tea, he could not see her eyes. 
He felt as if she were his assistant editor! He spent 
a restful evening, planning the first six numbers, 
glancing up at his aide-de-camp from time to time. 

Not until he was ready for bed did he realize that, 
at this time, Bertha was saying her eternal, never 
ending goodbyes to her friends. He could imagine 
her cheap horseplay—he was thankful that he (and 
Justine) had been spared the agony. 

It took no less than plumes gorgeous enough for 
a king’s funeral coach to make peace with Bertha. 
Tears having failed, she was the aggrieved type of 
person who feels that other things matter in this 
cold, cold world besides mere money. Jones had 
hurt her feelings! 

He was tolerant of this assertion—perhaps he had 
—he meant to! He also affected a new program 
—indifference. Even Martha’s home coming, her 
amusing fussation at finding the apartment furni¬ 
ture moved in new positions and a bowl of mayon¬ 
naise going to utter damnation in the ice box, did 
not seriously annoy him. He was engrossed in the 
new art periodical which promised to create a stir 
when it made its initial bow—and Justine. He 
dreaded hearing his mother’s comment on the 
portrait. 


UP AND COMING 


231 


She looked at it for several moments without 
speaking. “It ought to be called Noblesse Oblige,” 
she said, “she looks that way.” 

‘'How do you translate noblesse oblige,” Jones 
tried to be serious. 

“Doesn’t it mean ‘that’s the way you’re born?’ 
This picture looks that way-” 

“You mean she is a charming little gentlewoman, 
don’t you?” 

“Yes, and a snob—the sort that would hkve 
courage to do what everyone else steered clear of— 
I’d rather look at the last picture you had up, the 
one where birds’ nests were sticking under rock 
ledges.” 

Jones felt personally offended. He changed the 
subject to that of his sister—how she actually bought 
CANNED creamed chicken and never wore any 
other than silk lingerie, her generosity in giving 
Martha enough finery to last a lifetime, the way 
Chicago as exploited by Pat caused her old head 
to whirl, Cornwall with its five hundred thousand 
population seemed a calm haven. She was glad to 
be home. Jones looked thin, had he had decent 
meals? Judging from the pantry she should say he 
had not—imagine such neglect and waste, oh, he 
had a dinner party! Why didn’t he wait until she 
was home to do the work, she could have saved in 
so many ways. Next time, he must let her know 
ahead of the day. 

She longed to ask as to Bertha but refrained, she 
realized as never before that Pat lived in another 



232 


UP AND COMING 


world from her own, as remote as Marian’s little 
kingdom. How fortunate that this son loved her 
to the exclusion of all else. To think he tried to 
spare her work by giving a dinner party in her 
absence, she knew only too well how the maid had 
slighted and cheated—she certainly hoped the people 
had had enough to eat! 

In the early fall, when the art journal created 
favorable comment both in New York and London, 
and Bertha grumbled over Jones’ increasing in¬ 
difference, further success came to him by way of 
an unexpected event. Hannibal Hamlin died. To 
Jones was left controlling interest in the art store! 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Jones welcomed the addition of responsibility. 
It did not seem to lessen his good humor, 
his mother said. He sometimes asked himself 
whether this American good humor was not 
resultant of peasant ancestory when one’s grand¬ 
parents were, often as not, subdued Serfs? 

With his art periodical creating its own enviable 
place in New York and abroad, the great store 
carrying on traditions as well as keeping pace with 
modern demands, Jones found that work alone com¬ 
pensated for unsatisfactory personal conditions— 
which fact he mentally confided to the portrait of 
Justine, still paramount in his affections. The 
original of the portrait would have understood well 
what he meant—although he reminded himself this 
Justine was very likely a composite study—a hired 
model used for the figure. 

Something about his success amused him. It was 
so complete, virtuous, above suspicion was his in¬ 
ward complaint. Only in occasional drinking bouts 
or flirtations with married hostesses, the inharmoni¬ 
ous often ugly life with Bertha gave opportunity 
for other sublimation. It was true one can easily 

233 


234 


UP AND COMING 


find actors to portray dope fiends, wizard detectives, 
abominable villains but it is hard to secure competent 
players to do the role of the good old man or the 
village curate. So Jones sometimes writhed under 
his steady, honorable veneer! His record was that 
of work, triumph—and hidden dreariness! The 
world continued to applaud his name, he was a club 
director to succeed Mr. Hamlin. Mrs. Hamlin ex¬ 
pressed “confidence in his judgment,^’ the executors 
of the estate, singularly enough, did not wrangle 
over this man’s share in the ownership. He seemed 
to fulfill everyone’s hopes but his own—repay his 
mother’s efforts. 

Yet life was a stale, somewhat vapid affair with 
denied ambition into prosaic channels. Jones could 
not stifle the desire for romance, no substitute of 
cheap emotion, homage, gratitude, even friendship 
could sufiflce. 

Martha was showing signs of tyrannical defeat. 
When she gave up the effort to become what the 
portrait of Justine typified—a clever gentlewoman, 
she became an autocrat. Where once she regarded 
her son as one to be blindly obeyed, worshiped, she 
now took a somewhat unconscious attitude of 
authority. She was his mother—she would draw 
heavy dividends on those first years of effort in his 
behalf. She demanded to live in her own world into 
which no one must come unless they paid homage. 
Already, Jones had planned her rooms in the new 
house as Martha dictated. These rooms were to be 
her world. She would have satin bows on the cur- 


UP AND COMING 


235 


tains and framed Bible verses and books of doggerel 
verse with be-glad ingredients. She would have rugs 
of her own choosing, not of her son’s flawless taste, 
and her bed should boast of embroidered shams if 
she liked. It meant, in brief, that Mrs. Bynight’s 
personality crystallized even as Jones’ had done. He 
might reform the taste of the nouveau riche and 
supplement the excellent judgment of aristocrats 
but his mother’s decisions, for the first time in years, 
were not to be set aside. 

She could not catch up to Jones in the race about 
the social arena but she refused to stagger after 
him, only to be passed on every turn. This new 
state of mind was a relief to both. Jones felt that 
his mother was willing to rest on her laurels of the 
past, stop trying to win laurels of the present. At 
last, she was assured of her physical well-being. It 
had taken years to make certain no gray wolf would 
snarl at the door. Being poor was a deeply imbedded 
habit. Also, she saw that where once she had made 
things easy for Jones, she now made them difflcult. 
It was a question of the older generation stopping 
protests and the young generation ceasing to defy, 
the result being excellent teamwork. 

So Martha settled into being a gracious, limited, 
old-fashioned lady! She was in her element for she 
knew how to adopt the sentimental ways of her 
period. She became a ‘‘fast fading type” instead of 
a ridiculous, misunderstood individual. Jones never 
realized how clever his mother was when she figura¬ 
tively retreated into “my room” and took to hand- 


236 


UP AND COMING 


some caps and reading the Bible without fear of 
being laughed at—whereat her struggles to attain a 
stylish coiffure and “the larger life” met with 
scantily concealed amusement. 

She became frailer of body yet more forceful of 
influence by this gallant surrender. People did not 
speak of her as “Poor Mrs. Bynight, she never had 
a chance, you know” but as “Mr. Bynight’s sweet 
mother, snowyhaired, religious, all that—one could 
never contradict her. She lives in an adorable, em¬ 
broidered world, suggesting lace mitts and parrots 
in cages. Drop in to see her—not many of her sort 
left, God bless them!” 

Due to this maternal vamping, Jones renewed 
allegiance. His aesthetic sense was appealed to as 
well as the fear that Martha’s days were numbered. 
Therefore, he must make each of them as red letter 
as possible. He wisely refused the suggestion to 
move the magazine office to New York. He was 
not interested in invading the metropolis but in mak¬ 
ing the metropolis acknowledge Cornwall as an art 
center. 

He spent the winter abroad not only to buy but to 
meet artists, become imbued with the atmosphere of 
the other side. How little anyone suspected that his 
prolonged stay was due as much to Bertha as to 
any other element. Other members of the firm 
fancied Jones made the trip in such elaborate fashion 
because he was trying in a puritanical fashion to 
carry out every wish or intention Hamlin had ever 
voiced—and this European sojourn was one of them. 


UP AND COMING 


237 


From the windows of her sheltered world, his 
mother considered it another marvelous feat of a 
marvelous son! She asked for lace patterns from 
Dublin and a Paisley shawl. Pat wrote a muchly 
underlined letter on pink paper smelling of shampoo 
powder in which she commissioned him to bring 
back every Parisian novelty he felt would give 
Michigan Boulevard a thrill. 

Marian regarded the journey as a distinct per¬ 
sonal asset, an opportunity for Jones from a cul¬ 
tural standpoint. Would he please find a certain 
bookstall in London and try to purchase a certain 
book of Greek comedies she wished to give Robert? 
Was he going to Rome? If so, Robert wanted to 
give him a card admitting him to the toplofty his¬ 
torians’ dinner to take place within a few weeks— 
he must not miss being present, even if they re¬ 
quested him to sample butter found in a sealed jar 
at least a thousand years old 1 The news of his trip 
was already campus gossip—she was ever so proud 
of him, dear, wonderful Jones! 

His friends called it “a good thing—he needed to 
get away,” a splendid chap with big possibilities but 
he must be with the right sort. Rumors as to Bertha 
had cropped up at unpleasant intervals. Most re¬ 
grettable was the way in which, with apparently no 
one to blame, Bertha had been introduced to Mrs. 
Bynight. Whether Bertha had known his mother 
was to be at the store selecting draperies was one of 
those questions not important enough to debate. 
Reflecting upon it afterwards, Jones realized his 


238 


UP AND COMING 


mentioning the fact. And that Bertha, who rarely 
invaded his business domain, had made no comment. 

However, as Martha was leaving the store, Bertha 
had loomed into view, whereupon followed a pause, 
a stilted introduction, a gushing on Bertha’s part 
and an amusing innocence on Martha’s. 

But Bertha’s point was won. She knew his 
mother! More and more. Poppy’s propaganda was 
taking effect. Bertha must become so injured of 
heart, accepted by his mother that marriage was a 
logical outcome. Jones would either pity her to the 
point of consenting or be afraid to do otherwise. 

Martha did not comment upon the introduction 
although she bore no ill-will to this woman who 
seemed harmless to all intents and purposes. She 
refused to analyze her son’s attitude, she wished for 
surface harmony in keeping with her role of “dear 
old lady.” 

Bertha contrived to meet Mrs. Bynight again, she 
always sent her love via Jones and spoke of his 
mother in terms of extravagant praise. Before 
Jones sailed, she embroidered Martha a dressing 
gown which Jones found his mother both praised 
and wore. 

“She a clever needlewoman,” Martha said,, 
“fancy taking all this pains for me—I must write 
her a note.” 

“You needn’t bother. I’ll tell her,” he was im¬ 
patient at this impossible situation. Gradually, he 
was being made out a black-hearted rogue unless he 
stood by Bertha as he had stood by his sisters. 


UP AND COMING 


239 


After sailing, Bertha’s hysterical farewells and 
his family’s commissions paramount, Jones realized 
that his one regret was leaving the portrait of 
Justine! 


CHAPTER XXVII 


Not ten minutes after his return, months later, 
he noticed the portrait was gone. His mother over¬ 
reached authority in removing what she instinctively 
feared. 

“I never liked your grand lady,’^ she apologized, 
“so I hung up one of my own favorites—I knew you 
would not mind.’’ 

“Where is Justine?” he demanded. 

“In the packing case^—no harm has come to her,” 
Martha wondered at the importance of this 
thing. To her mind it was more important that 
Bertha Mullen had called, at Poppy’s instigation, 
proving a nice, reliable person who knew how to 
flatter. Her excuse had been that she wondered if 
Mrs. Bynight might not need someone to do her 
personal errands ? Her second visit was because she 
was worried at not hearing from Jones—had his 
mother received word, goodness knows she would 
hear if anyone did. Sympathizing with her, Martha 
shared her son’s last letter. 

Martha could not dislike Bertha because she 
understood her so well. She saw defeat ahead just 
as there had been for herself—only Bertha could 
not retreat as gallantly as Martha had done. She 

240 


UF AND COMING 


241 


could hardly blame Bertha for dinging to Jones 
because of mingled affection and greed. She prayed 
over the situation and found several Bible passages 
which upheld her prayers—and then had Bertha 
show her a new stitch in embroidery! 

If it gave the poor girl any comfort to visit her, 
it was little to do. No one else came to see her with 
the same interest. Besides, Bertha did things for 
her that meant comfort—rubbed an aching shoulder, 
cross-stitched a dress for Marian’s little girl. Their 
mutual bond was that each understood the value of 
poverty—what it teaches and what it crushes. They 
had weathered similar economic stress, known people 
who accepted the ugliness of life as inevitable, been 
associated with the drab side of existence in such 
helpless intimacy that they emerged from it distorted 
in judgment, supersensitive, uninteresting to those 
who have never undergone the experience. This 
bond of understanding was removed from affection 
or approbation—it was merely that they met on 
common ground, an experience not unpleasing. 

The morning following Jones’ arrival, Justine’s 
portrait was again before him. He had faithfully 
fulfilled all the commissions, even to the historians’ 
dinner in Rome as well as a luncheon in honor of 
some oriental potentate where they served reed birds 
in little mausoleums of sweet potatoes! Yet the holi¬ 
day had not changed his belief that the universe was 
more or less a thick ragout of ideas and himself one 
of the thickest! 

Even his interest in the new house was a trifle 

16 


242 


UP AND COMING 


listless, although he expected to be moved by May. 
It seemed a lopsided affair filled with his lopsided 
personality—and “mother’s rooms.” He was amused 
at the way she struggled to remain passive while the 
furnishing of the lodge was under way, trying not 
to insist on plush draperies instead of brocade with 
Japanese rice ships sailing about a coral sea while 
an old blue and gold sky watched the procedure. 

Martha had flashes of impatience at her inactivity. 
She almost envied Bertha her flat with its hideous 
equipment—the golden oak furniture, scrolled rugs, 
her card club supper parties, her clothes resembling 
the brilliantly beplumed inhabitants of some tropical 
isle. Martha revelled at being placed on an obscure 
pedestal—which was what being Jones’ mother 
amounted to! 

She indulged in more self pity than was whole¬ 
some—in her sheltered, valentine rooms. She 
wondered as to Bertha and Jones—had he been glad 
to see her? Was Bertha gracious or complaining? 
What had he brought her? What part would she 
play in his future? But she never knew. Jones 
spoke of Bertha with a certain careless respect, she 
spoke of her with praise and curiosity. After an 
attempt at discussing her, she felt it wiser to be con¬ 
tent with her own reveries. 

When Jones returned home he found that Poppy, 
recently made a widow through a car accident and 
now suing the company for damages, was living 
with Bertha and a new, formidible propaganda was 
afoot. It was no longer Bertha’s bohemian flat— 



UP AND COMING 


243 


it was Mrs. Fred Flynn and Miss Bertha Mullen 
who composed the household, sympathetic even to 
using the same face creams! It must be under¬ 
stood that Mrs. Flynn was Bertha’s “chaperone” and 
champion and Jones nothing if not a villain should 
he lag in attention to “this poor girl who wasted her 
youth for his sake!” 

Most men, as Jones reflected, would have aban¬ 
doned such a situation with small concern. But the 
same fine ability which won him success and proved 
his greatest personal charm was incapable of such 
a proceeding. 

He had brought Bertha handsome souvenirs, be¬ 
sides a necklace made from the backs of old Swiss 
watches for Poppy, now a person of formidable 
mien. She regarded this present as “junk,” ex¬ 
pecting something new and dazzling and her dis¬ 
pleasure took the form of lecturing Jones while 
Bertha was out on an errand. 

“Because you are Jones Bynight, a rich club man 
and art dealer, does not excuse you—no, siree, you 
ran after Bertha hard enough those first days. 
Poor Fred—he said it was a mistake! And she 
was so crazy for you, she hadn’t common sense— 
now you’ve gotten on and you’re tired and ashamed 
of her, she isn’t pretty or in your set. She’s got a 
heart complaint, the doctor says—poor girl, she’s 
awful blue a lot of the time, I have hard work to 
stop her from getting desperate. A good thing that 
your mother was nice to her. The day she went to 
see her, Bertha was desperate. She says, Toppy, if 




244 


UP AND COMING 


his mother ain’t human to me, I’ll end it all’ —and 
you only sending her postcards! Oh, you had your 
fun over there and a lot you cared. Bertha could 
have married—but you were in the way, never de¬ 
claring yourself one way or another—just a time 
waster, a drifter, now you’re a rich snob that’s come 
up from nowhere or nothing like a mushroom. By 
golly, men like you oughta be shot,” Poppy had 
ended in a satisfactory flare of temper. 

“My dear Mrs. Flynn,” interrupted Jones, “I am 
delighted Bertha is in such excellent hands as yours. 
I’m sure she will never come to grief as long as you 
tell her what to say—or, kindly enough, say it for 
her.” 

Bertha had warned Poppy that “she’d get nowhere 
with him, no matter how she read the riot act”— 
and Poppy realized the truth of the warning. She 
felt dismissed, rather chagrined at having made a 
scene. 

Jones mentioned the subject of Poppy’s chaper- 
onage as soon as he was alone with Bertha. 

“I don’t mind your temper,” he said humorously, 
“but I object to Mrs. Flynn’s wasting her dramatic 
ability on me—she must save it for the railway 
suit.” 

“Oh, did she start at you again?” Bertha said 
rather ashamedly, “I don’t blame you for feeling 
sore—nor Fred for getting in the way of a live wire. 
She rags me a lot, too, but she means well. Oh, 
not that I expect you to care about either of us— 
you only care about yourself.” 


e 


245 


UP AND COMING 

Jones did not answer, he felt numb and oldish 
whenever Bertha began these impossible tirades, 
always ending with a forced reconciliation and prob¬ 
ably a gift. 

“There’s no love between us any more,” she com¬ 
plained, sobbing. 

“No, a sense of duty on my part and a sense of 
heaven knows what on yours. I don’t dislike you, 
Bertha, but I never said I loved you and wanted to 
marry you. That was clearly understood—you were 
the one to endorse it, too. Isn’t that so?” He 
longed for a magic carpet to transport himself 
heaven knows where! Any place away from this 
sniffling, pathetic creature who was gaining in avoir¬ 
dupois what she was losing in disposition and who, 
contrary to sentimentalists, did not wax pale and 
spirituelle as unrequited love became her lot. She 
was more buxom than ever with a shrewish tongue 
and a greedy hand coupled with a certain lonely 
loyalty which made him feel honor bound! In 
truth, he had shut Bertha away from her own sort, 
in her light way she had become imbued with his 
“notions of living,” yet she remained ineligible to his 
sort, too eligible for her own. So she clung to their 
frail tie with a hysterical woman’s tenacity. 

She considered Jones was to be shared with his 
mother—who was the cause of Bertha’s entering his 
life. Bertha also felt she had gained in self-respect 
because of the alliance, she was proud of what he 
did, although she rarely knew any of the details and 
resented his superiority in odd moments of temper. 


246 


UP AND COMING 


She appreciated his courtesy, though she estimated 
her financial gain with a fishwife’s keenness for hag¬ 
gling. She wanted Jones to succeed—if he remained 
loyal to her. If not, she wanted to defeat his every 
effort. She must prove to her set she had not made 
a mistake in allying herself with Jones and to con¬ 
vince Jones’ set that he had not sacrificed himself 
because of her inferiority. It was all impossible 
but she refused to admit it. 

*‘You told me,” she began, her face purpling. 

*‘Please stop—what I told you and you told me 
has nothing to do with today’s problems. You don’t 
gauge the present by the past.” 

“You mean you are through with me,” she began 
crying like a frightened child, “Oh, not that—I 
couldn’t stand it after all this time-” 

“As long as you wish, I’ll hold to the promise I 
made,” he said for the relief of ending the scene, 
“is that satisfactory? Now let me out of here— 
with that woman listening at keyholes. She cannot 
threaten me or your friends badger and reproach 
me or you weep yourself into my surrender. I do 
not intend to marry anyone—as I told you—but 
least of all would I ever marry you. You knew that 
long ago. If you have taken Poppy to live with you 
in order to impress and persuade me, you have done 
a useless thing. I know my own mind even better 
than Poppy does.” 

“You’re cruel,” Bertha mourned, laying her 
dark head on his arm, “I care awful hard—more 
all the time—no matter how you act—don’t be 



UP AND COMING 


247 


cross, Pm not meaning to be horrid—not like you 
think.” 

He looked at her with scorn for himself and pity 
for her. By all the rules of the game, he must be 
a cad. No matter what his success, he must be a 
cad! He regretted his realization of the fact. 

He made a pretense of kissing her. “Let’s don’t 
be tense again,” he pleaded, “small good ever comes 
of it . . . I’m afraid I’ll not have time to see you 
for a few weeks. There’s a tremendous drive of 
business and the contractors for the house are almost 
coming to the mat over various details. I’m won¬ 
dering if your bereaved friend and yourself wouldn’t 
like to do New York?” 

Bertha’s eyes sparkled through her tears. While 
in New York, she would write appealing letters to 
Jones—that was wiser than scenes. She was a trifle 
too old to cry appealingly. 

While they were in New York, Jones, contrary 
to his report as to business pressure, decided to go 
a-visiting of his sisters and learn of their view¬ 
points in order to temporarily forget his own I 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


“No church or W. C. T. U. ever produced a 
metropolis,” Pat informed her brother as she sat 
opposite him in the gay cafe, “Pm for a cabaret 
before a chamber of commerce—which is one reason 
my business flourishes. Wait until you see my 
clientele,” beginning a vivacious account of the 
Ponce de Leonettes with whom she had to cope. 

Jones was admiring her—a beautiful materialist, 
he decided, even the red-tipped saucy heels of her 
shoes suggested worldly scandals. Pat had proved 
that one could be a modernist and yet a human being. 
On the wreck of marriage she had built a worthy 
career. It happened to take the form of rejuvenat¬ 
ing dowagers or making the merely married as dis¬ 
tingue as any movie vampire—but it was a career. 

True, her son was in the keeping of a hired nurse 
and she announced she intended to teach young 
Owen to spend money rather than save it, since it 
would be the surest way of having him want to earn 
it. Her relationships with her admirers were rather 
businesslike. Put estimated them as to personal 
worth and future possibilities, treating them accord¬ 
ingly. Sometime, she would re-marry. But not 
until her personality was so crystallized that she 
would be as enviable a wife as the man as excellent a 

248 


UP AND COMING 


249 


husband. Her naive conceit permitted no under¬ 
estimating of her achievements. Her sense of humor 
made her an excellent delineator of her environment 
and her son’s development. After she proudly cata¬ 
logued her activities, awaiting Jones’ approval, she 
took note of her successful brother who, in times 
less secure, proved himself her Gibraltar. 

She found Jones a stilted, unexpressed personality 
excepting where his work was concerned. He 
seemed unfamiliar with the joy which Pat demanded 
of life as much as she demanded customers to buy 
her waterproof rouges! 

They taxied out to Pat’s apartment on the North 
Shore with Pat still chattering everything from the 
social leader whose colored butler wrote successfully 
for the movies, using the doings of the household 
as his base, to the way she felt grown apart from her 
sister. 

“Marian is so engrossed in faculty doings and 
whether or not to tell her children the Santa Claus 
myth—I’m sure she was offended when I sent her 
an equipped vanity case—” but all this time Pat 
continued to take note of Jones. 

She said nothing of this until she exhausted her¬ 
self as a topic of conversation—which took several 
days. Jones enjoyed his stay. Pat did not rush her 
friends to meet him although they longed to, as she 
hinted. She tactfully allowed him to re-arrange her 
apartment, which she had considered a thing of joy 
and beauty. Together, these astonishing two made a 
futurist kitchen by painting the walls a lemon 


250 


UP AND COMING 


yellow with a desert caravan of camels and Arabs 
for a border. 

“Wouldn’t mother be petrified?” Pat said, “but it’s 
the duckiest place to cook? Who wouldn’t be will¬ 
ing to make Owen’s porridge and sting eggs for 
three minutes while gazing at the Sahara? Can’t 
you picture mother—shaking her head and saying, 
‘Seems to me an art gallery and a cook stove never 
went hand in hand?’ She can’t limber up past a 
certain point, can she? When I offered her ciga¬ 
rettes, it was pathetic. And when I confessed I was 
going out to dinner with someone owning large 
blocks of stock and as he had hitherto trained with 
tall brunettes, his attentions to me were doubly 
flattering—she was.ready to call out the militia! I 
expurgated my entire existence after that rather than 
risk another scene. But what do you do?” 

“I go to the club,” was his brief reply; to have 
confided his personal affairs to this modern, sympa¬ 
thetic young sister would have trespassed on a deli¬ 
cate reserve which invested Jones with proper dig¬ 
nity in Pat’s blue eyes. 

Pat had also offered to re-pay part of his loan. 
But Jones told her to use the money for Owen’s 
education—to see that he went through college as 
a gentleman—not a grind. True, the latter state of 
being was better than not to go at all but it warped 
a young thing, deprived them of normalcy. Later 
on they were apt to do puppy dog tricks with grown¬ 
up dog results! 

Pat agreed. “You always were a little old man,” 


UP AND COMING 


251 


she protested, “I remember you wearing dad’s clothes 
that mother had re-made—yet you never complained. 
Periodically, you emptied your dime savings bank 
into her lap although you had planned on buying 
something for yourself. Marian and I never saved 
or slaved as you did. I was beautiful and brainless, 
Marian was clever and conceited and we proceeded 
on those lines with you doing the grubbing! Yet 
you’re repaid,” she added as if with a sudden qualm, 
“If I thought my young product would be half as 
successful, I couldn’t find a hat ample enough to 
wear. Your firm is known everywhere—and your 
magazine is read by the most sacred of the socially 
dite. You get quite a kick out of life, don’t you?” 

“Exactly,” Jones resolved never to disclose 
the staleness of his personal routine. How could 
Pat remedy it—not by breezy comment or violet 
ray treatments! He wished she had never mentioned 
the money. It pricked tender memories! He had 
been planning to marry on that first bonus, his joy 
at the prospect had been brave and daring, “like 
flying flags”—only to find Marian hopelessly in 
love and Patricia dancing toward dangerous borders! 

“If Owen wants to marry young,” was his part¬ 
ing advice, “it isn’t as bad as some other things.” 

Pat shrugged her shoulders. “That is his affair— 
not mine. I’m trying to bring Owen up to stand 
on his own feet, mother tried to keep us under her 
wing until we were life size—it never does! I’d 
rather have my chick die of self-inflicted starvation 
than maternal suffocation, now wouldn’t you ?” 


252 


UP AND COMING 


“If I had any chick,” escaped from Jones. 

“You’ll be marrying some proper person one of 
these days,” Pat babbled, “having us kowtow about 
you both. I’m glad you have had such an un¬ 
hampered start—now you’ll marry a different sort 
than you would have done in your salad days.” She 
had not sensed the situation—Jones drew a sigh of 
relief. 

He saw to it that the personal angle was not 
touched upon again. He took delight in making, 
Pat’s living room a quaint product—with old ivory 
furniture done in rose sprinkled chintz, dotted Swiss 
curtains at every window and a delightful scenic 
wallpaper to amuse his nephew’s high geared, eight 
cylinder mind! 

Yet he became bored with Pat’s eternal gossip 
about the civilized jungle wherein her shop was 
located—alias the family hotel with its conflicting 
aura of baby prams, commuting husbands and bridge 
clubs. Here, according to Pat’s lively tongue, lived 
the lie-abeds, the married martyrs and the pink-and- 
white toe brigade. He was conscious that Pat did 
not comprehend either his ability or his success— 
save in terms of money. In his absence she traded 
a great deal on her brother’s reputation to further 
her own interests: “My brother, Jones Bynight— 
editor and founder of the Art Journal —almost sole 
owner of the wonderful firm of Hamlin and Son—” 
but she did not know all it signified. She had 
grasped when to be intelligently silent which carried 
her through otherwise revealing places. Yet Jones 


UP AND COMING 


253 


was content with her mundane estimate. An anes¬ 
thesia of indifference threatened him. 

He traveled eastwards, through his own city, to 
reach Marian’s home in the rocky hills of New 
England where he became submerged, without any 
warning, in the collegiate atmosphere. 

He found the Varleys more satisfied than happy, 
intellectual snobs suffering from the “smell of the 
lamp.” Having condoned, congratulated or con¬ 
demned them as one saw fit, the fact remained they 
lived in a world quite their own with Marian still 
taking courses and her husband wearing shabby 
clothes that his library might remain otherwise. 
Physical existence was something to be endured, 
ignored as much as possible. Already, they planned 
their children’s futures—the girl to be a physician, 
her name enrolled in a certain college entrance list, 
and the boy to be a mining engineer, his name like¬ 
wise prematurely entered. That either child might 
have anything to say about their respective destinies 
was not considered a logical possibility. 

Marian’s lined forehead, her faded wedding finery 
or Robert’s nearsightedness and the lack of a “real 
roast,” as Pat used to say, ever entering the Varley 
oven did not trouble them. Their recompense was 
in other channels. Therefore, Jones decided it was 
none of his concern. 

Although unsympathetic with their scheme of life, 
he refrained from criticism. He merely looked on, 
somewhat as his mother looked on at his life, the 
Varleys regarding him with pride, a pride suggesting 


254 


UP AND COMING 


toadyism, he was inclined to believe. To them he 
represented that rare trinity of education—ability— 
success! When he waved aside their suggestion of 
repaying any loan, snarling inside because the matter 
came to notice, they were doubly eager in their 
efforts to please. 

He preferred Pat’s boy to Marian’s children, 
impudent, chunky lad that he was, although he told 
himself the preference was due to having known 
Owen intimately. He did suggest a two inch beef¬ 
steak instead of eternal mush and milk and books, 
books, book; that the Varleys give their children 
a live toy or two, something to make them 
jump out and under. When Marian voiced disap¬ 
proval over Pat’s gift of the vanity case, he was 
terse in his unsympathetic reply. 

Something struck terror to Jones in this atmos¬ 
phere. What impressed him was how restricted 
were these men and women in the matter of personal 
development, how unfair was this condition, at least 
how disastrous in results on the feminine side of the 
ledger. 

He saw again with mature eyes that type of blue 
stocking woman who, after forty finds herself more 
romantic than at eighteen. At eighteen she has been 
a hi-brow with deluded ideas of careers, her belief 
that life was consecreated to the muses. At forty, 
the repressed madness of youth, slowly asserted 
itself with pitiful but seldom understood innocence 
and added dangers due to the years of concentration 
rather than experience. The result was often a 


UP AND COMING 


255 


bizarre, abnormal person suddenly wearing flapper 
effects, going round the world and then writing 
books telling how many men she met under strange 
circumstances “who were perfect gentlemen”—a 
starved satisfaction! Or becoming fanatical on the 
subject of banishing comic supplements and un¬ 
ethical fairy tales or preventing the vivisection of 
white rats, writing free verse and reading it aloud 
while bored audiences chortled politely. 

He met several of these souls who saw in him the 
always possible hope, women who now spent half 
a year’s savings for an evening gown—but of no 
avail. The cheapest organdie adorning youth with 
its fresh white skin and innocent eyes with invita¬ 
tions in their depths, pink lips capable of no classic 
phrases but making furious, adorable protests at 
being kissed—such as these won the victories. Of 
what use were family cameos or old laces, exagger¬ 
ated reports of vacation trips with pathetic fibs 
about birthdays, references to past chances to 
have married, a brave, overly educated attempt at 
flirtations. 

Jones protested the system of education which 
precluded from its followers such things as Pat 
took as her birthright. He, too, knew loneliness but 
with a masculine lack of conventional restraint. It 
had been worth the sacrifice to have saved Marian 
from becoming a cultured, bleak soul who longed to 
know life in unblushing terms. 

He mentioned something of this to the Varleys 
but they were politely disinterested. Their marriage 


256 


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had been satisfactory—they could hardly term it as 
a heaven-inspired event since they believed in atomic 
force and not a deity. Romance having expended 
itself, their interests turned with mutual consent into 
things intellectual. Their children were minds to 
be shaped as they dictated, not tender individuals 
from whom they might learn revealing, sometimes 
unflattering truths. 

After a fortnight of being exhibited on the cam¬ 
pus, ‘‘fed on animal crackers” as Jones protested, he 
was keen to return home, dig into work and see 
Bertha. Even her greedy scheme of existence was 
indicative of red corpuscles! 

When an absent-minded professor whose matted 
hair resembled a Scotch terrier and who wore white 
puffed satin ties at all hours of the day, insisted on 
giving a farewell tea with everyone sitting in state 
while one of those starved souls exhibited porcelain 
thumb rings as she read aloud her Chinese sonnets, 
Jones decided never again to expose himself to 
a recurrence of the affair. 

Coming away with whimsical relief, he told him¬ 
self he was too unfair in his estimates. He, son of 
a day laborer, had within himself the discriminating 
possibilities of a Puck and a Voltaire! 

He found an infantile relief in his mother's old- 
fashioned self, in somewhat the same way Bertha's 
comradeship proved a coarse substitute for dreams. 

Now Martha decided to be a story book old lady, 
although her heart and brain felt younger than when 
she was thirty-five, torn between an effort to pay 


i 


UP AND COMING 


257 


the butcher’s bill and read her Shakespeare—Jones 
basked in the quaint atmosphere with which she 
was surrounded. She was mother, an impersonal 
semi-deity, no longer the struggling, often hurt or 
angered and usually awkward person who did not 
perceive that cruelly drawn line of demarcation be¬ 
tween the cultured and the longing-to-be-cultured. 

This fact impressed him more keenly than before. 
It was a relief to find her gentle self agreeing with 
everything he expressed. His enemies became her 
enemies, his friends hers without reservation, the 
mental barrier formed by “mother’s adorable Albert 
Memorial viewpoint” preventing intrusion into his 
actual life. 

Martha was overcoming any sense of exile, phys¬ 
ical toll for the years of effort helped in this deci¬ 
sion. Besides, she realized her son preferred the 
story book mother. She was less essential in many 
ways but something to be cherished—like his choic¬ 
est jades which were in velvet lined cases and the 
cases in a carved cabinet of rare wood, opened only 
on special occasions. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Jones had been decent in building his wood lodge 
not to interrupt the trees which had been growing 
for over a century. His mother’s sitting and bed¬ 
rooms were placed to overlook the most stately of 
these with a balcony where she might enjoy a sum¬ 
mer day siesta or spread crumbs for her beloved 
snowbirds. 

The effect as one drove up the lodge drive was 
an ambush of green with a glint of diamond shaped 
windowpanes and flaming red brick chimneys. 
Within, Jones let his pocketbook and taste run riot, 
purchasing nothing, as he shamedly admitted, that 
Justine of the portrait would not have approved. It 
seemed such a natural thing to pretend conference 
with this young gentlewoman—say as to painting 
the living room woodwork amethyst and having 
fussy, lovely, crystal lamps installed therein—^he 
could picture her nod of approval when the drawing 
room became a symphony of green and buff with a 
Savonnerie carpet and the lift panels in the hall, the 
lift being for Martha’s benefit, were painted with 
gay balloons, parachutes and a passenger aeroplane. 

He debated with Justine before he let milk col¬ 
ored candlesticks and a blue bristol glass lamp be 

258 


UP AND COMING 


259 


dominant in the reception hall and when he suc¬ 
ceeded in getting woodwork from an old London 
house to be reassembled for his library, he decided 
that in this room Justine’s picture must be hung. 

He fancied she would prefer the dining room, 
however, in Italian style, the furniture painted every 
color from old ivory to daring scarlet, green that 
had wedded blue, intense purples with soft draperies 
and a bust of Caroline of Naples to lend a gentle 
air. 

His mother mildly objected to this room—mostly 
to the number of crystal bowls and the sketches of 
Venetian waterways which seemed ^‘streaks of blue 
and blood red” but Jones knew Justine would have 
approved, that she would have “enjoyed” the two- 
top table, one top frankly decorative, a mounted 
guinea fowl calling attention to the fact, and the 
other for cigarettes and ash trays. 

How Justine helped in imagination to plan his 
moonlight garden, to be masses of white phlox and 
carnations, peonies and roses with a fountain epito¬ 
mizing the spirit of fantasy. There seemed no cor¬ 
ner of the lodge which was to win him the title of 
“that phenomenal but hopeless bachelor” but what 
Justine would not have applauded—and shared! 

Periodically, Jones called himself a fool for such 
reveries. Another man might have turned to the 
stock market or the art of becoming a miser, raising 
blooded cattle, backing a chorus girl in some risque 
farce and enjoying the consequent sardonic impor¬ 
tance. Instead, Jones built a house of dreams. 


26 o 


UP AND COMING 


The only practical idea regarding it, his archi¬ 
tects had gossiped, was his admission that had said 
house been in Nantucket it might have made an 
admirable series of tea rooms. 

It was his mother who saw the kitchen garden 
was planted correctly and mildly suggested that the 
laundry chutes although painted cleverly with rain¬ 
bow hues were so located as to connect with the 
laundr}^ and not the coal bins. 

When Jones bought her a sedan, purple enamelled 
of body like a candy box, and insisted she be driven 
out, done up in properly luxurious wraps, she felt 
as if she were in a luxurious but none the less re¬ 
stricted prison. 

Her old friends would be timid of calling at the 
lodge. Jones’ friends would flock in for week¬ 
ends, he was certain to be a popular host. And 
Martha would remain in her dainty rooms, sort of 
an “Exhibit A” no more, no less. The guests would, 
first of all, run up to say “hullo to dear Mrs. Bynight, 
a lamb thing—you can see by her hands how hard 
she has worked—she seldom goes out—it wouldn’t 
do. She is perfectly happy in Jones’ success, well 
she might be, too, for he worships her as if she 
were sacred!” Which would begin and end her 
part in the entertaining. Her Bible, old-time sugary 
tales, her fancy work, her music box, her pretty 
clothes, her meals served on immaculate, flower- 
trimmed trays, drives in the lavendar cab—calls 
from financially embarrassed persons—these com¬ 
prised her life. Jones would have been amazed had 


UP AND COMING 


261 


he known how often she thought of Bertha. Ber¬ 
tha was still in the thick of things. 

Returning from his trip, he found Bertha had 
visited his mother more often than was pleasing. 
His was the position of not wanting the pot to call 
the kettle even a delicate gray—and in consequence 
becoming very much smudged. He wanted his 
mother to regard Bertha as someone whom he had 
known as a younger man in a care-free way and 
whom he had outgrown, yet still felt kindly towards 
—just as his mother sent gifts to the old neighbors. 
He wanted Bertha to feel that his mother was such 
a charming frailty, she must have no idea Bertha’s 
friendship with himself was other than a pleasant 
affair. He did not want Bertha to whine about 
wasted youth or hint of matrimonial opportunities 
gone astray. As for his own reaction—if his mother 
spoke only good of Bertha who insisted that she 
adored the former—and both were sidetracked from 
his own busy life, what could he do about it? Ber¬ 
tha was merely part of the pattern which had com¬ 
bined to make him an extravagant dreamer, yet in¬ 
tent on business and not altogether beyond reproach 
in personal relationships. As long as Bertha recog¬ 
nized her own exile, he was satisfied. She must 
realize her scenes and Poppy’s influence were with¬ 
out avail. True, he owed Bertha a certain loyalty 
nor did he in the least dislike her. But he realized 
that during these years her viewpoint had so nar¬ 
rowed that he was the gigantic figure in it and she 
now demanded unfair consideration. He had made 


262 


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her discontented with the things she once had and 
had not given her the things which she realized she 
would be awkward in possessing. The upshot of 
it was that she considered she had a right in order¬ 
ing his destiny and in his mother she had found a 
willing ally. These two, so widely different yet 
united, were firm in their opposition against such 
a one as the original of Justine’s portrait coming 
into Jones’ horizon. 

Bertha’s fresh beauty had gone, the day of becom¬ 
ing the virago gypsy was close at hand. When she 
found harsh threats and clumsy scenes only bored 
him, she chose a new role—that of a lonely woman 
who would care at no matter what personal loss. 

There were still surprising moments, as Jones 
often reflected, when he enjoyed Bertha’s boisterous 
cheer—and excellent cooking. He disapproved of 
his own enjoyment but it did not alter the fact. 
There was a let-down of tension, in contrast to his 
usual life. It was as removed as when he sat in his 
mother’s rooms and indulged in memories. 

Bertha had grown fonder of money than Jones 
suspected. She wanted to be assured of security in 
her old age. She saw that Jones cared little about 
money, he demanded peace of mind—and she acted 
accordingly. Poppy no longer dominated her. Hav¬ 
ing lost the suit against the railway company, she 
returned to work in a department store, dependent 
on Bertha for all the “treats” which her weekly 
stipend could not have provided. 

Several months after Jones’ wood lodge was fin- 


UP AND COMING 


263 


ished, his mother resigned to the slant-eyed orientals 
who took charge of its housekeeping even to openly 
smoking her son’s cigars and letting good cream 
sour in plain view, she came near having a most 
unpleasant half hour. 

Jones had returned from New York, a fleet of 
new ideas engrossing him. He had run in to say 
hullo to his mother before dressing for a dinner- ’ 
party in town. He was in anything but a receptive 
mood for small talk. 

“Hullo, darling,” he announced himself, coming 
in to toss a liseuse of thinnest white into her lap. 
“Wear that and be my nice wraith. I’m tired—so 
many people I knew happened to be on the train— 
talked our heads off—how is everything? Don’t 
tell me Kato is still absorbing my champagne or the 
minister had persuaded you to forego buttered toast 
because the heathen of Kickaboo have no tooth 
brushes—” he was impatient to be off. 

“It’s a sight for sore eyes to see you,” his mother 
began, “been as lonesome as a graveyard here if it 
hadn’t been for old Mrs. Slattery and Bertha. I 
appreciate Mrs. Slattery’s coming clear out here— 
just to think, she walked from the street car, a good 
half mile—and poor soul, she told me her son got 
married out in Kansas and that means her monthly 
stipend ends! Dear me, how she worked sewing 
flour sacks so as to get that boy an education—Jim 
Slattery never would have amounted to a hill of 
beans if it hadn’t been for his mother. Seems hard, 
don’t it? I’d like to make the money up to her but 


264 


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she’s got a wicked pride. I didn’t dare do anything 
more than send her home in the machine. My stars, 
she thinks this house is grand—who wouldn’t, at 
that? And Bertha has been so nice—she does all 
my errands like no one else could. And, I hope you 
won’t mind, she went right into the kitchen and made 
me an old-fashioned dish or so—this Japanese cook¬ 
ing tastes like it was boiled in one pan, I just itch 
to toss up some biscuits. Bertha overruled them 
in short order—she’s a fine girl, she don’t look well, 
either.” 

Jones’ silence told of his displeasure. 

“I take the blame,” Martha added, ‘‘Bertha’s not 
to be scolded. She’s kind hearted—and she just wor¬ 
ships you. Why, she said-” 

“Please,” Jones held up a protesting hand. “I 
wish you wouldn’t discuss me with—callers. It is 
bad enough to show your friends my new clothes. 
Bertha’s a good sort—but why this intimacy?” 

“Haven’t you been friends for years-” 

“A friendship begun in salad days—neither of 
us would do the same if we could re-order the past. 
I can’t analyze why I became friends—it was one 
of the things which just happens. If Bertha has 
neglected everyone else for me—when she knew I 
never thought of her seriously—it is not my fault. 
I appreciate her kindness to you—but I’d rather you 
talked of anything else but myself.” 

“We said the nicest things,” his mother protested, 
“sometimes I am lonesome to talk to somebody who 
isn’t an affected snob, tolerating me because I’m your 




UP AND COMING 


•265 


mother,’^ her face flushed with resentment*. ‘‘After 
all, there’s not such a heap of difference between 
Bertha and me and me and the world—I sometimes 
wonder what all the rumpus over this being an 
aristocrat is about! You didn’t rest until you’d 
thrown away everything I had gradually gotten to¬ 
gether, some of the things were shabby and cheap 
—yet those same things were like the hand-me- 
downs from your old Chinese mandarins, second¬ 
hand stuff. Their things were thousands of years 
old, maybe, mine only a few years—but it was all 
somebody’s trash. Ever think of it? I did. I’ve 
wished for my rocker lots of times, the one your 
Aunt Min sent from the country—you did it over 
for me, remember? The girls bought the covering 
at a sale. That chair meant a lot to me—just the 
memories. And when you have a cracked vase 
worth a thousand dollars that some Chinese noble¬ 
man had in his house—it don’t mean anything along¬ 
side the rocking chair my youngsters made present¬ 
able.” 

Jones consulted his watch. He saw he was in for 
it. “I’d probably have better sense now—at the time 
we moved into the apartment, I was an extremist. 
So tired of makeshifts, penny poverties there was 
no reasoning with me. I’m sorry, mother—but I 
must go.” 

Martha was in tears. “I wish I hadn’t spit out 
what I thought,” oblivious of his wincing at her 
homely phrase, “I shouldn’t have—when you are so 
generous—only, Bertha was awfully kind-” 



266 


UP AND COMING 


“You are quite right—I’m sorry I’m such a dunce. 
But I’ll have to disappear for now-” 

“One more thing,” she insisted, “I want you to 
understand about Bertha. I’m not urging you to 
like Bertha—only don’t hurt her feelings because 
she’s too fond of you. People can like people even 
if they are thinking very differently about most 
everything. Ideas haven’t an awful lot to do with 
hearts, my boy.” 

Jones made another attempt at apologizing and 
then fled. He did not know that the thing his mother 
intended telling was that Mrs. Slattery of the old 
neighborhood on Elm street had mentioned a Jo 
Willard who married a niece of her second cousin’s 
—“had to marry her”—and the said Mrs. Willard 
was always a troublemaker and shirker of family 
care and was about to get a divorce, seeing as she 
had been left some money by her folks and was 
afraid Jo might benefit by it. Willard had made a 
modest go of a butcher shop in Detroit. He was 
agreeable to the divorce and their children were 
nearly grown. Also, in confidence, Bertha the very 
next day had told her that Jones had been very 
different from her first beau—Jo Willard, who up 
and married a Cora Whitney without a word of 
warning and who, the last that was heard, lived in 
Detroit and had forsaken the role of millinery drum¬ 
mer to keep a butcher shop. 

Was it not a small world, after all, was the 
sulphitic comment his mother had wished to 
make! 



UP AND COMING 


267 


Martha, instead, reproached herself for what she 
had ventured to say—would she never learn to keep 
within her limitations? If Bertha was wise, she 
would do the same. 


CHAPTER XXX 


In the late fall of 1920, Jones met the original 
of his portrait. It seemed a natural sort of hap¬ 
pening and to have decided how much was romantic 
fate and how much unfortunate coincidence would 
be like trying to weigh out the gold in sunshine. 

Someone told him a young artist was waiting to 
ask about exhibiting still life canvases in the gal¬ 
leries, eager to sign the contract that entitled Jones 
to an option on all her work. Which news was not 
overly cheering in the day’s detail and the prospect 
of an enforced evening spent with Bertha, neglected 
now for several days. 

But because he never allowed anyone other than 
himself to accept or reject work, Jones went into the 
anteroom, only to stand back as if Justine were 
the Chinese decorations in oil that she wished to 
sell and he an enthusiastic purchaser. 

She made a quaint picture in her old-fashioned 
mink dolman, a bright Russian peeked hat and a 
beaded purse in the form of a flower. There was 
no difference since the portrait had been done, the 
same odd, clever face with its frame of blue black 
hair. Only now he could see that her eyes were 
long, gray things brimming with pertinent questions. 

'T beg pardon,” she said presently, recalling the 

268 


UP AND COMING 269 

fact that she was not a portrait. ‘‘Am I speaking 
to Mr. Bynight?” 

‘‘And an extremely old friend,” holding out his 
hand. “Can you guess why?” 

She did not offer to take it. “I presume you 
mean because of the house—your grandfather and 
mine?” one could hardly call her tone insolent. It 
had a certain hauteur combined with amusement, 
as if she considered this sudden declaration in poor 
taste. 

“What house? Sit here—put your things there— 
ril get to them presently,” he placed a chair, turn¬ 
ing on some over lights. 

“The Dunlevy house,” she spoke impatiently, “I 
am Justine Dunlevy, my grandfather built that hid¬ 
eous barn, it’s a club now, isn’t it? And people say 
your grandfather-” 

Jones was annoyed at his flushing. “My grand¬ 
father helped to lay the floors,” he finished quickly, 
“so you thought that was our mutual bond! I didn’t 
realize that people still peddled the story about. But 
you are wrong. I have known you for years be¬ 
cause of your portrait, you could hardly have been 
twenty then, it is the one where you are pouring 
tea, do you recall it?” 

“Fitzhugh’s daub,” she laughed, enthusiasm creep¬ 
ing into her voice. “Of course I recall it—that was 
done in London by a friend of father’s, an amazing 
rogue who never came to any good end—but every¬ 
one liked him anyway. He taught me everything I 
knew. I posed for him in return—I sat for every- 



270 


UP AND COMING 


thing from the haughty hostess in that canvas to 
the double role of Princess in the Tower! If Fitz- 
hugh had had enough to drink, he could make out 
with me as the model. Tom thought the thing you 
speak of was rather good—he prevailed on Fitzhugh 
to give it to us and then he sold it to a dealer to 
pay bread-and-butter bills. That was Tom. Tom 
is my father, you see. After that he decided we 
must move on—there was to be a fortune for him 
in Tangiers—so we moved on and I lost track of 
Fitzhugh—and you have the canvas?” 

“My treasured possession,” unconscious of the 
bromidic phrase, “I used to change my pictures about 
—but never yours. It is hung where I can always 
look at it. That is why I felt you were an old 
friend, not the other.” 

Justine laughed to cover her confusion. “A 
thousand pardons, I only wish my grandfather had 
been the one to lay the floors of your grandfather’s 
house! The former is the wisest sort of American 
ancestor to indulge in! For here we are—you owner 
of this splendid store, dominating a share of Amer¬ 
ica’s art activities and I, in shabby clothes and a 
delicatessen store background, asking you to buy 
—those,” pointing at the still life studies. 

Jones was silent. 

A somewhat wistful smile on her lips, Justine 
finished, ‘T’m afraid you thought I was trying to 
impress you with being a Dunlevy! Banish the 
notion. I’m hampered by the fact—but I mustn’t 
waste your time,” recalling the errand. 


UP AND COMING 


271 


“I insist on monopolizing your time/^ he cor¬ 
rected, “remember, I have known you a long time 
—a good many years. You cannot consider your¬ 
self a stranger because you happen to appear in the 
flesh with some colorful canvases,” waving his hand 
in their direction. 

“What have you thought of me all these years— 
fancy poor Fitz’s daub holding sway in your home!” 
When she laughed, Justine’s personality seemed pun¬ 
gent, like a garden after a sudden, refreshing shower. 

“You want to know?” Jones readjusted his thick- 
ish nose glasses, pulling up a chair beside her, “I 
thought at the outset that you were both insolent 
and mysterious, somewhat to be feared. Then that 
you were wonderfully heartless, insincere—yet I 
decided never to part with the portrait, it was to be 
my special delight, confident, it suggested youth, 
romance. Tuscany in April—despite the tea set of 
catlike comfort I Can you tell me why? I’ve waited 
a long time to know. There were other times I was 
positive you could either be a doormat person endur¬ 
ing eternal trampling upon or else turn into a veri¬ 
table sword of Damocles, having given no hint that 
the transformation had taken place—a dangerous 
and adorable creature to have about—that is partly 
what I thought I” 

“You think you can use my stufif?” she rose as if 
to end the estimate. 

Jones was unperturbed. “Awfully rude to inter¬ 
rupt,” he announced as she went over to re-arrange 
her pictures, “come, I don’t believe you would give 


272 


UP AND COMING 


me credit for my discernment. Pll tell some more— 
I decided you possessed another interesting trait— 
you were unlike women who looked their best when 
wearing new clothes but, most unheroine like, you 
should wear things which you had made subservient 
to your personality, off effects—say a skirt that 
sagged or a bow tied on the side it was never meant 
to tie on—you were a super-girl because clothes 
never made you!’’ 

“It is well that donner et pardonner is our motto,” 
she said lightly. 

“Isn’t it ? And that we’ve the floors of the Dun- 
levy mansion as a common bond—my grandfather 
laying them, yours walking over them. I am trying 
to place in which Dunlevy group you belong—there 
are the Barton Dunlevys—but there were only sons 
—and the Hamilton Flood Dunlevys are bankrupt 
—and the-” 

“No one remembers me,” Justine said with sudden 
bitterness, “that is something to be glad about! But 
tell me—what of these-” 

“Since you’re determined to clear away business 
before you admit to friendship—” Jones obediently 
began examining her work. 

They were studies of smoothly carved ivory gods, 
brittle, glossy vases of blue and green with back¬ 
grounds of daring Chinese embroideries painted with 
a talented but careless hand. Also two night scenes 
with cold, tragic moons and splashes of violent light 
escaping the edges of faintly defined house shutters. 

“Either a riot of color or sombre as the tombs,” 




UP AND COMING 


273 


Jones mused, ‘‘I should say you have the ability but 
not genius—still, the world is seldom troubled with 
the latter and our firm is noted for having ‘good 
buys’ and ‘satisfactory things’—you understand. I 
wanted to paint once—be a sculptor to be exact. I 
think I had about as much talent as you display. 
It was impossible, fortunately, for me to develop it. 
Who taught you? You’ve had some splendid 
grounding.” 

“Mostly Fitz—he used to say I knew how to 
paint but I must flatter myself into believing that 
fact,” she admitted, shrugging her shoulders, “I 
had foolish lessons at convent schools but Tom never 
kept me any one place long enough to have it count.” 

“Tom—Tom Dunlevy?” 

“My father, another tent dweller who plays the 
game with loaded dice,” she said quickly, “one of 
those magnetic, futile persons and a tarnished aristo¬ 
crat to boot. Please don’t ask any more.” 

“Why not?” Jones displayed rude persistence, “do 
you think you can leave here, never know me other 
than the man who did or did not accept your pic¬ 
tures when for years I’ve thought of you and talked 
of you and-” 

“Why should I know you?” was her instant 
question. 

“You do know me—you don’t imagine I’ve con¬ 
sulted your picture about every detail of furnishing 
my house even to achieving an artistic yet old-fash¬ 
ioned effect in my mother’s apartments, whether to 
buy a shaggy jowled airedale or a trim terrier—to 

18 



274 


UP AND COMING 


say nothing of debating the various creeds men have 
invented and whether or not we are a chance race 
on an uncertain, dying planet, oh, these things 
are merely the fringe of our understanding, I 
was positive you were human enough to like 
military bands and fried scallops and despise fruit 
salad and morning musicals—after all this, to say 
nothing of moving you in to be the inspiration of 
my study and installing a carved fire screen depict¬ 
ing the hunt, with dazzling white rugs spread under 
your presence—and you, merely-in-the-flesh, dare to 
turn up an artistic little nose and say, 'Why should 
I know you?’-” 

“It is closing time, sir,” lisped a clerk, having 
been instructed to thus rescue Mr. By night from 
tenacious callers. 

“Go ahead and close,” ordered Mr. Bynight to the 
clerk’s amazement. 

“What have you to say for yourself?” he de¬ 
manded as the clerk disappeared. 

She was smiling, the gray eyes tender and 
friendly. “I’ll answer questions,” she said softly, 
“if you are quite sure—as to what you have just 
said.” 

“Fm quite sure,” he told her seriously. 

“Wait, I must explain some things. Please know, 
oh, friend of many years and questions, I am a 
much traveled, sophisticated person, as the daughter 
of Tom Dunlevy, black sheep, ought to be. 
Mother died when I was four—and since then I’ve 
been used to going to schools and being packed up 



UP AND COMING 


275 


and sent away because no one paid my bills—you 
can fancy the treatment I received during those 
times. I think my best realization of what a mother 
meant was when I saw an idiot epileptic taken to an 
institution, his mother having died. I heard the 
neighborhood chatter of how hard it would be for 
the poor thing, how different from a mother’s care. 
I grieved for that epileptic, realized what his loneli¬ 
ness would be, pictured his distress. Then I under¬ 
stood that all children without mothers suffered in 
more or less the same fashion. I’d been trained to 
help Tom off to bed if he was drunk, telling col¬ 
lectors no one was home when he was hidden in a 
closet, hearing cheap, evil things from the careless 
lips of his companions—and always listening to his 
contemptible wails about his family’s social land¬ 
slide, their hard-heartedness as to his shortcomings, 
how he was turned adrift, how I was not old enough 
to marry off to someone who would pay his bills! 
He brought me up without faith or love, both were 
represented to me as handicaps.” 

“You see, we have much in common,” she rose 
and faced him in a boyish sort of frankness. 
“While your family were cautiously climbing, mine 
were losing, more each day. Tom treated me with 
the camaraderie of a boon companion with neither 
illusions nor protection. I was welcome only when I 
proved useful. When I rebelled, we fought—some¬ 
times one, sometimes the other won.” 

“He is quite impossible—and I love him. I blame 
him, as youth always blames those who trained them. 


276 


UP AND COMING 


IVe cut loose. He's gone to South America on the 
wild chance of making a fortune in rubber—Pm 
going to struggle with my brush. I came home— 
as nearly home as there is for me. I could grovel 
among old friends and win some God-forsaken, 
educated job, be a retainer of the rich by the bounty 
of family connections but I won’t. I’ll make my 
own place or join Tom in earnest, for all time,” she 
waited his verdict. He was realizing that she was a 
lovely, embittered woman, as sensitive as violin 
strings, destined for authority, intense in the desire 
to lead her own life. 

He laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘‘May I take 
you home?” he asked, sighing as he recalled with 
whom the evening was to be spent, “I shall be en¬ 
gaged this evening but tomorrow. Miss Dunlevy, 
you will lunch with me and we can talk further.” 

He fancied tears started in her eyes but the long, 
black lashes prevented their detection. 

“You would better not,” she urged, “it will spoil 
everything!” 

“I’ve the right to tell you of myself,” was his argu¬ 
ment, “you just promised to answer questions. I 
want the chance to be as honest as you have been. 
Regarding the pictures. I’ll treat you as any un¬ 
known but promising exhibitor—you can see Halli- 
day about our contract. I’m interested in you—I 
only called you Miss Dunlevy as a joke. You are 
Justine to me—always.” 

The watchman and the scrubwomen were engag¬ 
ing in twilight gossip. Justine rose, gathering her 


UP AND COMING 


277 


old dolman together, he noted that her gloves were 
skilfully mended. 

“I live at 45 Goodrich street,” she admitted, “are 
you shocked at the address? A wonderful place to 
live, I don’t need to leave the house for models. 
Everyone is kind. If one has a pot of soup—we 
all have a taste. If someone has a grievance, we 
sit in judgment. If we can’t pay rent—there’s a 
pawnshop a square off. If we do pay rent, we have 
clean towels—sometimes a fire.” She was leading 
the way out of the store, talking in her breathless, 
pleasant manner. 

Hers was the charm of personality which made 
newsboys call her “lady” and men lift their hats 
when she entered an elevator. She stepped into 
Jones’ roadster with an air of pleasing authority, 
commenting on his display of tapestries. 

Before they reached the lodging house, she added 
lightly, “You must know the worst—I was pro¬ 
prietress of the Pink Pitcher in Greenwich Village 
last year—until said pitcher was smashed by Tom’s 
debts!” 

“I refuse to be discouraged,” Jones opened the 
door. “Please wait for me in the gallery—I’ll have 
Halliday ready to see you at twelve.” 

“I’d sell my soul for fame,” she said in sudden 
protest against her present conditions. 

“Don’t waste your resources, Halliday has never 
betrayed the slightest symptom of a Faust,” was his 
retort, enjoying her confusion. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


It was easy to listen to Bertha’s monotonous talk. 
He knew Justine! He was absorbed in noting how 
unlike Bertha was to her—yet Justine was living 
with just such a background as Bertha had once had 
but Justine achieved cynical superiority to the en¬ 
vironment. She saw both humor and pathos in the 
humdrum details, as in the song title, “Alaska, the 
City by the Sea,” written by a fellow roomer. 
Whereas Bertha would have disapproved of any¬ 
one’s wasting time in pushing a pen when he might 
shovel snow. 

Responding to Jones’ mood, Bertha encroached 
on his good-nature to tell of Poppy’s need for new 
glasses, poor Poppy with only her little stipend, she 
could never hold a good job if her eyes were bad 
and goodness knows, what it came to fees, oculists 
used the same method as Jesse James only Jesse 
had a horse. 

Jones promised to help in the matter and after 
more idle bantering, he started to leave. The even¬ 
ing had been easier than he had expected. 

“Sometimes I worry,” Bertha said wistfully, fol¬ 
lowing him into the hall, “I think you’d like to break 
away and all—I used to mean a lot to you, didn’t I ? 

278 


UP AND COMING 


279 


You mean a lot to me/' one strong, red hand on his 
sleeve. 

Her common face with its dismal expression 
blurred the mental picture of Justine. He shuddered, 
figuratively, warning himself that this matter of 
putting aside one who has served a purpose is not 
to be lightly done. 

^‘You’re always nice,” he heard himself saying, 
wondering at the lie. “We understand each other 
too well not to be friends—tell Poppy to go to 
Dr. Loew—I’ll have phoned him—he’s a friend of 
mine. Don’t stay out here, it is cold.” 

Reluctantly, Bertha let him pass. Poppy crept 
out of the bedroom as soon as Bertha returned. 

“Well?” she asked sharply, unlovely in her care¬ 
less negligee. 

“Dr. Loew,” Bertha said softly, “he’ll phone him 
. . . oh, God, you make me sick sometimes, all you 
care about is getting something for nothing—” 
she put her head on the table and gave way to loud 
sobs. 

“Tarts and tadpoles,” commented Poppy, “what 
is wrong with me? I never noticed little Bertha 
passing up chances.” 

Bertha lifted a teary face, “Didn’t you ever come 
to like anybody so much you hated to have to be 
grateful to ’em?” she demanded, “no matter how 
you once felt—don’t you know what it is to be just 
a fool-woman!” 

This was too technical for Poppy. She left the 


room. 


28 o 


UP AND COMING 


Justine sent a note postponing her engagement 
with Mr. Halliday and her luncheon with Jones. 
Detained by unexpected business, she would come 
to the store the following day. 

During which interim Jones chaffed because of 
the delay and that most astonishing of things oc¬ 
curred which unromantic Halliday attributed to 
beginner’s luck. 

A patron of the sales gallery not only admired 
one of Justine’s decorations in oil, temporarily placed 
in a poor light, but he bought the same, paying the 
hundred dollar price without quibbling. 

Whereas Jones felt the same exhilaration which 
had been his during certain stepping stones in his 
career. He knew all too well what a hundred dol¬ 
lars would mean to Justine, he puzzled over how to 
avoid her paying the expected commission. 

As he waited for her in his office, where she was 
to come as soon as she had talked with Halliday, 
he told himself he had never before waited as 
eagerly for anyone! She was a trifle late and when 
he turned to congratulate and scold her all in one, 
he felt abashed, put in his place by this haughty 
young person in her shabby dolman, her gown of 
dull blue with golden scrolls emphasizing the fact 
that although it was made-over it had originally 
been a French creation. 

'‘Why did you do it, how could you be so cheap?” 
she demanded, waiving formalities. 

“Do what?” He almost called her by her given 
name, “are you too prosperous and important to 


UP AND COMING 


281 


think of such a thing as a luncheon card? Con¬ 
gratulations—may this be but the first of many 
sales.” 

“How dared you?” she almost stamped her foot, 
“and I liked you, too!” 

“Do what?” he felt aggrieved, as misunderstood 
as any woman. 

“I wouldn’t have thought you so clumsy,” she con¬ 
tinued, her haughtiness evaporating under Jones’ 
distress, “you meant well—but that sort of thing 
will never do. Father would have fallen on your 
neck—but I am not father. I’d rather have to color 
Christmas cards or mend fine laces for hand laun¬ 
der ies than-” 

“You silly Justine,” he said boldly, “you think I 
forced the sale of your little canvas I I never looked 
at them after you left—Halliday dumped them about 
as he chose to do. I never even saw the purchaser 
—but I shall e.^lract our commission from your - 
check! There’s revenge. You don’t imagine I’m 
guilty of that tuppenny sort of philanthropy?” Jones 
knew how to adopt a dignified, injured manner 
which disarmed her. 

“Could it have been a bonafide sale—truly—oh, 
truly?” 

“Must have been,” shrugging his shoulders, “I 
assure you Halliday never pushed your stuff when 
others have things hanging in here for months. 
The man happened to want it—probably had a 
smoking room or a poodle dogs’ lounge that needed 
just suet a dash of color. The next person would turn 



282 


UP AND COMING 


a cold shoulder on your wares and enthuse over a 
futurist conception of Noise! Don’t fancy Pm such a 
poor business man that Fm rushing your things willy 
nilly. The only picture I’m interested in is the 
one of yourself—now, I’m ready for your apology,” 
folding his arms in a mock threatening manner. 

“I’m forced to believe you,” she said briefly, “it’s 
been one of those damnable bits of luck that inspire 
false hopes! At any rate, I signed Mr. Halliday’s 
contract.” 

“Why couldn’t you come yesterday?” changing 
the subject with abruptness. 

“Why should it matter ? I sold a canvas by stay¬ 
ing away. And now, I’ll go along and not stop for 
lunch-” 

“You think not? I think you will. I’ve eaten 
so many meals with you in spirit—when you hung 
in my dining room—gazing at you instead of ravag¬ 
ing the finest avacado the January market afforded, 
that you can’t escape me! Please don’t waste time 
arguing, like women haggling over cab fares. Let’s 
go to the University Club where it is quiet. Do 
you mind walking a few blocks?” he had thrown 
on his wraps. A moment later they were leaving 
the building. 

Justine was more amazed at herself than at Jones. 
“I am a silly,” she admitted as she neared the club, 
“I flew into a bolshevist rage, pictured you as cheap, 
lording it over a fallen Dunlevy—I had some of the 
hatefullest things to say—and now I’m ashamed and 
more than that—hungry!” 



UP AND COMING 283 

‘Uood work,” Jones took her arm, “how will 
you spend the check?” 

“It is spent; yesterday I was scurrying about from 
pawnshop to pawnshop to raise money for Tom. 
He’s in another jam in Buenos Aires—or says he is 
—and I can’t let him go adrift. I have some hideous 
things that I use in emergencies—so it was no 
deprivation personally. But now I’ll get them out 
and be ready for the next onslaught.” 

Jones made no answer until they were seated, 
Justine enjoying her luncheon. He had a guilty 
feeling, he remembered he had taken Bertha to a 
cheap French restaurant—they pledged their friend¬ 
ship at the same if he remembered correctly. He dis¬ 
liked being here with Justine, even if the calibre was 
vastly superior. He wanted to forget everything 
but Justine—no tag ends of the past to annoy him. 

“That is too bad,” he said finally, “I mean about 
your father—not the entree. But you will sell more 
things and, once established, you can pass pawn¬ 
brokers by with a cold stare. I think I understand.” 

“It is poor taste to understand people,” she ob¬ 
jected, tilting her proud head, “I try never to under¬ 
stand people I like—I don’t want to be disappointed 
or cause them-embarrassment- For instance, there is 
an aged, ex-book clerk at the rooming house, an old 
dear he is—Edward Preach. He left his good 
position because he hoped to write. You see, he 
had spent so many years selling the world’s worst 
literature to the world’s best people and being left 
in company with the masters, that he fancied he 


284 


UP AND COMING 


could rival their works. So he tried. Now he is 
reading gas meters—one must live. But I never 
let him think I understand. He believes me envious 
of his interesting employment—poking into dim, 
mysterious cellars while impatient maids let him in 
and out or stand guard over the wine closet, thus 
discovering how many feet of gas the Simkinses of 
Argyle Terrace have ruthlessly consumed! He has 
an air of superior aloofness when one induces him 
to speak of his vocation—” she was crumbling bread 
between slim, restless fingers. 

‘T will never understand again,” Jones said 
humbly. “Pll just like you if I may.” 

“Do,” an impulsive smile giving her face a child¬ 
ish fascination. “I want to be liked but not ana¬ 
lyzed—not while I wear old furs and have my 
precious—my pearl things at Rothschild’s.” 

“You’re a decided young person,” trespassing fur¬ 
ther, “generous and splendid but determined to 
mould others’ destinies and have a mental sign of 
‘hands off’ on your own shoulders. I’ll try to 
respect it. But only until your furs are glossy 
sables and you wear your precious pearl things every 
day. Then I shall understand you!” 

“Since you wear black pearl scarf pins, may I 
understand you?” was the ready challenge. 

“Do—I’ve waited years for someone to accomplish 
the feat.” 

“No one bothered—it was too easy,” her eyes 
growing into soft, twilight things, “however—I’ll 
try,” leaning her patched elbows on the table. 


UP AND COMING 


285 


“First, you have been thoroughly exposed to cul- 
ture,” counting it off on one finger, “second, you 
have never lived it down—or else someone has not 
let you. Third, you can’t determine what is the 
proportion of personal freedom to other interests 
and fourth—you are as antiquated in your convic¬ 
tions as your own Korean embroideries.” 

“Go on,” ordered Jones as she paused to see the 
effect. 

“Fm afraid you believe in sentimentality—not 
sentiment, you don’t admit the law of acceleration 
which operates whether or no, sweeping aside the 
old to make room for the new. That unless today 
includes tomorrow, it is useless, stale—shall I go 
on?” 

“Proceed,” Jones was conscious that Justine had 
an amazing effect on his mental horizon, as an 
electric battery sometimes stimulates dying nerves. 
She was emboldened, iconoclast that she was. 

“Whereas once limitations proved your inspira¬ 
tion, now they augur destruction,” she swept on, 
“I know I sound as if I were to become one of 
those frankly-forty type always so interested ‘in the 
psychology of things!’ But, really, I never will. 
Fd prefer being a lacquered adventuress holding 
forth at slightly passe Riviera resorts, it would be 
less to my credit but infinitely more jolly!” 

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, “as if you would 
ever think of-” 

“S-s-sh, Fm the one to vivisect—you don’t under¬ 
stand me.” 




286 


UP AND COMING 


“You might at least tell me how you became such 
an adept.” 

“Many things helped. Taking charge of a wicked, 
lovable parent most of all. Wandering about the 
globe and meeting the sort of people one reads of 
but manages to avoid meeting. I’ve seen very little 
that Baedeker stars, you’re the kind apt to see every¬ 
thing he stars, if you had to stay up until dawn to 
get it all in-” 

“Libel!” he declared, “do I look like the victim 
of a starred Baedeker?” 

“I wanted to make you growl,” she confessed, 
“no, you wouldn’t impress me as being wholly guilty. 
I’ve been guilty of so many things but none of them 
Baedeker would consider starring. I even went on 
as an extra in a Monte Carlo movie staged near 
Monterey—so did dad. I got five dollars a day 
for exposing myself to the fog and fleas of sunny 
California. Still, one of the leading women gave 
me a silver lace hat which ought to make me 
grow well and strong—but let’s talk more of 


Jones looked at his watch, “Fm due at a directors’ 
stodgy meeting,” he said frankly, “I’m going to 
send you home. You didn’t think I’d be blunt and 
practical, did you? This soft headed, lower class 
altruist who tried telling you someone bought your 
picture not twenty-four hours after it was exhibited. 
I think I’ll behave rudely for some time—yours was 
a foul suspicion.” 

“Since I’m dismissed, I may as well have the last 




UP AND COMING 287 

word,” she whispered, “this has been almost the 
most interesting time I ever had.” 

“What was the most interesting?” was his 
demand. 

She pursed her lips as she reflected. “Oh—one 
summer we spent in Turkey with a rich bohemian 
set Tom was trying to outwit—they had an entree 
to circles behind the throne, very Arabian Nighty! 
We lost out and had to flee to a place in Bavaria 
where they only sold postage stamps and beer, to 
catch up financially.” 

“And our little lunch comes next in your estima¬ 
tion?” Jones said slowly, “I am glad.” 

She shrugged her shoulders as if sorry to have 
admitted as much. 

“Don’t be pettish,” he commanded, “remember, 
you are the tarnished aristocrat, I’m of the snug 
middle class that your sort like to see walking hot 
ploughshares. We are in America and therefore, 
bound to compromise. I’m going to take care of 
your career—and yourself—as much as your un¬ 
pleasant spirit will let me. I’ve wise plans for you 
—just as dear old Hamlin had plans for me and 
they came to pass, too! You may call me a fool, 
a social climber, a lonesome man—anything you 
wish. It cannot affect the situation. There is no 
need to feel patronized or enraged. In the orient 
all imbeciles, no matter how lovely and what charm¬ 
ing portraits they make, are considered wards of the 
government and cared for accordingly. I’ve decided 
to adopt the custom as concerns yourself.” 


288 


UP AND COMING 


Justine's answer was characteristic. *‘So kind," 
drawing on her gloves, “but sometimes things are 
apparently alike yet far removed upon close inspec¬ 
tion. For instance, there is a certain daring charm 
and color in a crazy quilt but it is not art.” 

“Perhaps caring for a fascinating imbecile may 
not be municipal custom but a matter of personal 
devotion,” was his parting thrust. 

Some men friends came up just then and he 
introduced Justine to prevent further repartee. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


It was several weeks before Justine met Jones’ 
mother. Realizing that Justine was not a follower 
but a co-seeker, Jones shrank from introducing her 
to his mother—since she hinted of the former’s 
downfall. 

All of which Justine surmised, as she had sur¬ 
mised Jones’ attitude towards life. Critical analyst 
that she was, it was Jones’ personality not his suc¬ 
cess which interested her. She had been too long 
accustomed to standing off her father’s creditors, 
deciding which course was best for him to pursue, 
not to realize that Jones was unconsciously agoniz¬ 
ing over what he tried to sublimate in unwise or 
futile ways. 

It was small shock to her when she discovered 
Bertha Mullen’s identity, shrugging her shoulders 
over the news although her eyes darkened with 
dissatisfaction. It was shortly after this gossip had 
reached her that Jones insisted she come to the 
lodge and meet his mother. 

Justine still cherished the European notion of a 
call—do not go unless you have something to offer in 
return. She knew she had nothing to offer Mrs. 

X 9 . 289 


290 


UP AND COMING 


Bynight unless it might be the truth! There was 
nothing in common between these two except Mar¬ 
tha’s tyrannical worship of her son and Justine’s 
modern, intense love for him of which she was 
neither ashamed nor sentimental. Likewise, a sun¬ 
rise to Justine was the inspiration for a new canvas; 
to Martha it was an assurance of an excellent wash¬ 
day. Yet Jones, lovable idiot, authority on Egyptian 
design, felt certain these two would be the best of 
friends. 

At the outset Martha resented Justine. She con¬ 
sidered her supercilious and regarded her jacket and 
tarn of gray leather with a brief, pleated skirt com¬ 
pleting the costume as anything but suitable for this 
supposedly talented young person to whom her son 
was devoted. Martha feared Justine just as she 
pitied Bertha and was not, at heart, sorry when 
either of her daughters had occasion to demand fur¬ 
ther aid from Jones. 

She felt a comic supplement person in her tea- 
gown of lace caught here and there with velvet 
roses. Jones had asked her to wear it. After 
Justine had been in her presence ten minutes, she 
was like an onlooker shot down from Mars. 

“Women have come to where they must choose,” 
Justine had remarked, “they must choose because 
they have become cables, no longer single, frail 
threads but many-sided, conflicting yet connected 
strands. No woman confines herself to one narrow 
interest or attachment, even women of average posi¬ 
tion and brain are interested in a number of things 


UP AND COMING 


291 


and therefore not to be judged by any one person 
who may only know but one strand of the cable. 
Life is much more interesting even if more com¬ 
plex. 

To this Martha, thwarted cable, made no reply. 
But began an elaborate description of a centerpiece 
vase she wished Jones would send up. 

‘Tt has a frog with holes in his back—you put 
flowers in them—and around the bowl rim is a little 
fence—as if the frog were in a pond.’’ 

Jones made a note of the same. 

“Have you looked up many old friends?” his 
mother asked Justine. 

“Two—to my sorrow. The first had the idea 
that to retrieve the family reputation I must become 
a cowed retainer of the rich—you know—the sort 
that stays in a house rather than have it closed— 
and arranges flowers for formal affairs and addresses 
the cards and reads out loud to the family valetudi¬ 
narians. She was certain I could work up quite a 
clientele. Just because I was born a Dunlevy, I 
told her I’d rather go to perdition,” Justine laughed. 

“Sensible decision,” applauded Jones. 

“But don’t you think?” objected Martha, “it might 
have been wise not to refuse outright—painting is 
such—such—” she paused confusedly. 

“She can paint, that’s the splendid joke on all of 
them,” Jones announced, “they’ll park their rick¬ 
shaws at your studio before the year is out.” 

Justine smiled indulgently. “But the other friend 
—that was comedy. Having cooked over a gas jet, 


2g2 


UP AND COMING 


so to speak, for longer than I can remember, I 
admit to a deliberate Sybarite greed when I called 
on the Pointdexters. I hoped to sit in state at a 
well laid table, decently trained servants, candlelight, 
more conversation than food, flowers—^that sort of 
thing. They were glad to see me—even enthusiastic! 
And asked me to stay for Sunday night supper— 
but, said they, We are going into our playhouse to 
cook and play housekeep—we do so almost every 
week—it is such a lark. You are in time to help 
—would you rather make an omelette or wash the 
dishes afterwards—everyone must do something!’ ” 
“But an omelette is easy,’' Martha protested, “that 

needn’t have worried you-” 

Justine and Jones exchanged glances. 

“I was not worried but bored. I was not seeking 
nourishment but an escape from sordidness.” 

Tea interrupted the discussion during which Jus¬ 
tine took the lines of least resistance. She found 
herself praising and agreeing with this story book 
mother. Only once, to Martha’s horror, did she 
make a rash statement and that was when she calmly 
asserted that anyone of intelligence could love more 
than one person at a time. Which Martha inter¬ 
preted as her intention of “not caring how many 
people Jones was involved with—she was out to 
get him, no matter what!” 

Jones was not sorry when he took Justine away, 
keen to learn her reactions but reluctant to hear his 
mother’s. 

“Like my lodge?” he asked as they drove off. 




UP AND COMING 


293 


‘‘Immensely and the quaint air of your mothers 
rooms—the dressing table, for instance, with those 
dotted white drapes tied with blue and doll ladies 
holding rosy parasol lamps—you thought of that!’^ 
“I didn’t mean you to speak as an interior deco¬ 
rator,” he insisted, “come on, you who scorn beating 
about the bush! Don’t you know it means every¬ 
thing to me—just what you think?” 

Justine faced him squarely. “It will be too awful 
if we both care very much,” she said softly, “like 
satires engineered by old Voltaire behind that gaudy 
drapery of the French revolution—it could never 
come out anyway right—never!” 

He put a big hand over her small, firm one. “That 
has nothing to do with it—you who told me I must 

live in today and not the past-” 

“While all the time the past dominates, destroys 
you,” she answered. 

“You care, don’t you?” he whispered. 

“More than is safe, more than I want to,” staring 
at him like an angered sexless sort of sprite, indig¬ 
nant at being confronted with mortal emotions. 
“You with your lovely, selfish mother, letting infan¬ 
tile devotion be your inspiration and me with a 
rascally coward for a father—breaking away from 
him, judging him without mercy. How could we 
ever hope to agree? How can I have first place in 
your heart? I won’t admit you have first place in 
mine—I’ll say I want success more than anything, 
to satisfy every starved longing for recognition, 
applause. You don’t know what it means to be 



294 


UP AND COMING 


pulled down, down—you’d hate whoever did it, 
wouldn’t you?” 

“She has helped me be lifted up, up,” he reminded, 
her, “wouldn’t you be grateful, eternally tender? 
But, again, that has nothing to do with our love— 
you are first in my heart as I am in yours,” he kissed 
her, 

Justine gave an angry cry. “In your heart per¬ 
haps—but not your life—dear man, not hearts but 
life matters!” She turned to stare at the whirling 
scenery. 

Jones put his arm about her. “Let me explain, 
dearest, let me-” 

“You will talk of waiting,” she said in an abrupt, 
boyish way, “waiting—until what? Your mother’s 
death? Wince all you like. At least, I’ve said the 
truth. As your shop girls would say, ‘I’m not a per¬ 
fect lady!’ There is something culpable in the morals 
of such—they can never be themselves. If I’m the 
tarnished aristocrat. I’m trying to rub off the stain 
—shine brandy new. It has usually been done by 
marrying well but I prefer another method.” 

“So you love me,” he persisted clumsily, “I’m not 
worthy personally—any more than any man ever 
thinks he is when he meets the right person-” 

“You mean Bertha, that pitiful lump who is 
silenced by a new hat or enraged by lack of one? 
Who boasts of your friendship, trade on it—the 
gossip of every rooming house—why, Jones, don’t 
you know that I consider Bertha just a symbol?” 

Jones withdrew his arm. “Please,” he said 





UP AND COMING 


295 


hoarsely, “it hurts to hear you—like old lace dipped 
into a cheap dye.” 

“We are almost at the house,” looking out of the 
window, “let’s decide not to go on—it is the quickest 
way. I abominate indefinite situations—” the ma¬ 
chine was slowing down. 

“May I come tomorrow?” he begged, helping her 
out, “if you won’t let me see you. I’ll buy six of 
your pictures and pompously hand you the money 
in front of Halliday—you’ll have to make a scene. 
Come, I’m quite determined—I must tell you a good 
many other things before we decide.” 

“Where can we talk?” she said suddenly, “not in 
a lodging house, a restaurant,” was her only objec¬ 
tion. 

“My own home.” 

“But we just came from there-” 

“My study—with your picture. We will not have 
to disturb anyone else. Let me drive you out after 
dinner,” he spoke sharply as if it were a business 
matter. 

Justine shook her head, impossible to be dis¬ 
pleased. “Why do I say yes when it is all so use¬ 
less, so lovely, such a waste of time!” 

Unconscious of the curious passersby, Jones bent 
and kissed her hand. “Why? Because the only 
thing that makes life bearable is what may happen 
when we turn the corner,” was his answer. 

Before he reached home, Jones realized his mother 
was not the first woman in his life. He walked 
around the parkway circling his lodge before entering 



296 


UP AND COMING 


the house, planning how to be fair to everyone—and 
to love Justine. When he came into Martha’s rooms, 
his determination to marry Justine was so great that 
he offered no evidence of what was transpiring, there 
was no intermediate stage of wavering. A less 
determined person would have betrayed uneasiness, 
indulged in telltale comments. 

“Not in bed yet, dear?” he said gently. 

“Not sleepy—I’ve been thinking about something 
that I’ve thought of for weeks—whenever I started 
telling you, you were tired or busy. There has never 
seemed any good chance. It is something I am more 
interested in than anything else in the world—after 
you.” 

“Then let’s hear it,” was his cheerful invitation, 
wondering why she did not mention Justine. But 
with Martha, too, motives were concealed. 

“It’s the need for a community church out here,” 
she began timidly, “I’d like so well to help build it 
—or at least ask you to help me. An old-fashioned 
notion—but then. I’m too old to change in ideas. 
The little church would be my idea of something 
worth-while, it need not be costly, nor denomina¬ 
tional and there would be no strings to it in the way 
of arranging services and so on. I want to have a 
building ready for people who want to worship when 
and how they like. I’d like to see the church com¬ 
pleted before too long ... I wonder if, instead of 
spoiling me in every other way, you’d mind helping 
with this?” 

“A fine idea and like you to have it,” was his 


UP AND COMING 


297 


answer. “Yes, I think I can promise that you shall 
have your wish.’’ 

When she smiled, an irritating expression of de¬ 
light, he responded with a listless grin. Leaving the 
room, he added with studied ease: 

“How did you like Justine?” 

And his mother forced herself to answer. “An 
unusual but alarming person—poor thing, I hope her 
work meets with success.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


‘T’ll revel in this library with all its booky loveli¬ 
ness,” announced Justine when she came into the 
room, “as for definite conclusions—this conversation 
will be merely verbal tag.” 

Jones did not answer. He was rather uneasy 
because he had not mentioned Justine’s visit to his 
mother, this night might prove one of Martha’s rest¬ 
less affairs during which she prowled. He was irri¬ 
tated because such a possibility detracted from the 
vital issue. 

He established her in a properly effective chair 
while he took to the firebench, his long legs getting 
tangled up in the rugs. 

“A new frock?” he asked in a commonplace man¬ 
ner, as if they had all the time in Christendom to 
discuss momentous questions. 

“Another remnant,” Justine glanced at her slim, 
gray gown with its transplanted Egyptian designs, 
“if I bought new things they would have to be the 
pay-as-you-wear-them sort—I’d rather manage in 
my remnants.” 

She glanced up at her portrait, the dominating 
note, then at Jones sprawling awkwardly on the 
settle. 


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299 


“You talented clown/’ she commented, “you can’t 
make things come out evenly, can you? Two plus 
two are apt to make five in your case.” 

“Why are you looking at the picture?” he spoke 
resentfully. 

“It seems such an abortive attempt to have some¬ 
one share your life.” 

“The original will soon share it.” 

She shook her head. “Very pretty—but I’m not 
sentimental. Whatever else I suffered at Tom’s 
hands, I thank him for not becoming a victim of 
over-attachment or belief. We speak a different 
language, Jones, and no one can prove diplomatic 
interpreter.” 

“Love doesn’t need any,” he insisted, reaching over 
to pick up an ornate papercutter and trace designs 
with it on the polished settle. 

“I don’t know,” he added, “that love has changed 
since the stone age bloods pummelled their chosen 
ones into submission and said chosen ones took their 
punishment with coquettish surrender.” 

“I know,” Justine corrected, “love has changed 
greatly.” Her brows drew together, as if she dis¬ 
approved of the remark. “You forget that in the 
same accepted manner the stone age bloods treated 
their chosen ones to blackened eyes and ‘cauliflower 
ears’—older members of the tribes were also pum¬ 
melled into oblivion as soon as their uselessness was 
established, a drastic but not totally unkind method.” 

Jones tossed the knife aside. “You unfeeling 
little ogre!” he began. 


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“Not at all—merely more frank than is considered 
good form, I have said a significant thing—therefore, 
I must apologize.” 

“Sometimes you seem the most calloused person 
I have ever known—your own portrait would blush 
for you. At a time when most women would at 
least pretend to blush, your poise would entitle you to 
be presented at court without a quiver.” 

“Thanks. Let us keep to facts, not quibble over 
personalities—after all, life doesn’t readjust itself as 
deftly as a jigsaw puzzle. To all intents things 
seldom turn out as they should—or as we’d like to 
have them. He who sacrifices most is often the 
heaviest loser—so on. If life were a jigsaw puzzle, 
your mother having accomplished drudgery would 
achieve the artistic, become equally cultured, atune 
with your interests. She knows she is not, uncon¬ 
sciously her attitude has become that of a tyrant in 
sel{-justification. She treats you as a possession— 
not an individual.” 

“That is not untrue—but what of it?” 

“She stands between us—or rather, she would 
pretend Bertha Mullen stood between us while she 
hid behind the former.” 

Jones flushed. “Sorry you have to say such 
things,” he begam 

“I sha’n’t say many more,” her arms folded across 
her chest in judicial attitude. “I am a calloused, as 
you say, modern woman who has the misfortune to 
love you. I am exacting, imperious in that love. I 
resent for you every parasitical demand made upon 


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301 


you by your family—I wish you had neglected them, 
whether it would have been right or wrong, instead 
of being the generous, soft hero with cheap antidotes 
for his heroism.” 

“Why make such statements?” he protested, “you 
don’t mean them.” 

“You would prefer my using that figurative, dis¬ 
honest language such as ‘when the stork came’— 
evading facts by stating symbols! Getting nowhere 
at all except Robin Hood’s barn! I don’t incline 
toward the Rogers’ Group attitude of mind. I can 
calmly discuss Bertha as I can your mother—^and 
myself, if you want me to.’' 

“So you blame me,” he said thoughtfully, “I 
thought you would. Yet what else could I have 
done? Answer that as honestly as you analyze the 
outcome—remember, our family had no background, 
no traditions for us to fall back on, be tided over 
because of—it was new and tender and very un¬ 
certain—our family unit. Should I have married, 
cut lose to leave the girls and mother when they 
needed me most?” 

“Hardly,” her voice was sharp but her eyes 
gentle, “the first step of this climb was made when 
your grandparents married in public to gain some 
furniture. After that, by the scheme of American 
progress, there was small chance of turning back. 
The Bynights were doomed to rise, as the Dunlevys 
to sink. Seesaw—you are merely part of the pat¬ 
tern, your mother the dominating motif. Upon her 
depended how far you, per se, would go. If you had 


302 


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not made the top step your children would—it is 
all so inevitable, so poorly planned! Pm not really 
blaming—Fm understanding. She can’t realize what 
she has done to you—all she realizes is what she 
has done for you. You are bereft of personal lib¬ 
erty. You can write a check for many figures, pack 
your trunks and go off to buy a Florentine villa but 
you can’t stand up and say, ‘I am a free agent—I 
shall marry—live apart from old ties.’ ” 

“In a sense I can,” he came over and suddenly 
took her in his arms. 

“That means,” pushing herself free, “you expect 
me to live with your mother—be subservient to her 
—join you in your hypocritical worship. No, I 
love you too much.” 

“Why can’t you love her just a little—estimate 
her worth?” 

“Stupid, stupid, that has nothing to do with it. 
I do love her.” 

“Then why hesitate—why all these unpleasant 
statements-’ ’ 

“Love is not paramount in this situation. I’ve 
been trained to avoid every unnecessary thing, as you 
have been trained to attempt the unnecessary. Per¬ 
haps we are both wrong.” 

Jones insisted on facts with unexpected bluntness. 
“So you refuse to live here with mother although 
you would be in authority—you would ask her to 
leave here—exile her, as it were?” 

Justine smiled. “I would. And now you’ll start 
hating me I” 



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303 


could no more hate you than I could comply 
with that wish.” 

“I warned you this would be a useless evening.” 

“As for—” hesitating. 

“Bertha?” her brows black peaks of anger, “why 
prolong the uselessness ?” 

Jones walked to the mantel, resting an arm on it, 
his free hand jangling discordantly among the fire- 
irons. “Perhaps Pm a coward,” he admitted 
morbidly, “at any rate, a sorry figure I cut in your 
eyes.” 

She shook her head. “You can’t be impersonal—- 
there’s the rub. You aren’t able to step aside, con¬ 
sider yourself as someone else. You have been 
too enmeshed in the personal climb. I don’t doubt 
your love—but it is a pale, flabby emotion. I refuse 
it.” She rose. 

“Don’t go,” he begged, “I realize I’ve not come 
to your decision but we must work out a com¬ 
promise—you can’t expect me to take your view¬ 
point instantly, sweep aside everything I’ve worked 
and fought for—wanted you to share—to be tolerant 
—magnanimous-” 

“No sophistry, Jones—either flat contradiction or 
a clear vision.” 

“You underestimate her worth,” pointing towards 
his mother’s rooms. “If you knew one tenth of all 
she has endured, struggled for, managed-” 

“I realize—not first hand, of course—but I do re¬ 
alize. It is what I tried telling you. This situation 
is life, dominated by neither sentiment or justice. 




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Very likely, she experienced a similar reaction to¬ 
wards her mother-in-law. That was life, too. I 
only wish we had never met—that you had continued 
in your fantasy of knowing the picture—which 
merely took up wall space and required occasional 
dusting,” her voice was so direct it reminded him 
of stinging arrows, “but we may as well face the 
situation and not pretend. Pm going to be socially 
revived, I can feel it! Already old friends are asking 
me to their large, second rate things and this has 
come about through your efforts and your gallery 
advertising. Fm Justine Dunlevy the artist, not 
wild Tom Dunlevy’s neglected daughter! And you 
are going to continue in your personal squirrel cage, 
sending nephews to college and nieces to the bridal 
altar, buying your mother every superfluous luxury 
you can 'find and the other women gewgaws—and 
some day, when it is too late, you’ll discover you’ve 
missed the whole point of the thing, you’ll be an 
eccentric old bachelor with too much money and too 
high blood pressure while relatives and quacks are 
not quite displeased as to the situation,” she swept 
up her cape as she spoke and walked from the 
room. 

Jones followed; he did not try to argue further 
nor to drive in with her. He saw her into his car 
with the carelessness he would have shown one of 
his mother’s friends. 

“Good night,” he whispered, “it will all come 
right.” 

“Good night,” she answered, “it has all come 


UP AND COMING 


305 


wrong. But we’ll survive—when you admitted you 
fell in love with a picture, I knew it was fatal.” 

‘‘Why?” refusing to close the car door. 

“It was illogical. You should have fallen in love 
with the original and had the portrait as consolation 
during the days of widowhood!” Deftly, the car 
door closed. 

Jones first of all went by his mother’s door to see 
if it was closed, laughing at himself for the habit. 
Then, sitting before Justine’s portrait, he studied it 
critically. 

“I feel certain I am not going to marry you,” he 
announced softly, “you are going to marry me!” 

20 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


Bertha Mullen bided her time to speak of 
Justine, although she had every intention of con¬ 
ducting a question box regarding this newcomer. 
Bertha’s program, outlined by Poppy, was concerned 
with ingratiating her in the favor of Jones’ mother 
rather than rousing Jones to neglect by her tearful 
scenes. 

One cannot be a Jones Bynight or a Justine Dun- 
levy without the fact of their mutual attraction be¬ 
coming known. Old friends of the Dunlevy’s, 
including Mrs. Hannibal Hamlin, beamed on Justine 
not alone for her art but her expected future as Mrs. 
Jones Bynight. That personage would be someone 
not to be scorned. Meantime Bertha’s intimates 
said the sarcastic, cheap “I-told-you-so” things which 
brought to the surface every vicious atom of Ber¬ 
tha’s make-up. 

It was what she should expect was what she heard 
from all sides, she might have known Jones would 
make a fool of her. Her sole weapon, pitiful in its 
frailty was “his mother likes me.” Just as no one 
knew how much truth there was in the statement, 
no one knew how hard Bertha worked to make this 
come about. Even Jones would have been amazed 

306 


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307 


at the effort she expended. To Jones Bertha was 
more and more the aggrieved, lonely woman seeking 
to please his mother, becoming annexed to his family 
in a vague way. 

Some ten days after Justine told him goodbye, 
during which he had only glimpses of her, Bertha 
broached the subject but with little solace. 

“If he says he is engaged,” Poppy advised, “ask 
him for a lump sum right then and there, say you’ll 
raise the devil if he don’t come through. We could 
start a nice little shop with it—you and me.” 

“I don’t want money,” Bertha argued untruth¬ 
fully, “how about my feelings?” 

This was too absurd and beside the point for 
Poppy to answer! 

Jones listened to her accusations of “that Dunlevy 
woman—dear knows she lived from hand to mouth, 
her father was no better than he should be and she 
haughty as a princess, instead of a good honest job, 
painting away at pictures and getting Jones to sell 
them! Was it true he was in love with her—he 
must be since he made her famous in the city, stick¬ 
ing her things in the windows with fabulous price- 
marks—oh, how could he be such a fool, disloyal pal, 
toady, etc., etc.” Bertha broke down at this point. 

Those monogrammed shirts and scarfs and hand¬ 
kerchiefs—what had her willing fingers not made 
for Jones—the embroidered, knit, crocheted, tatted 
articles she had done for his mother—was she not, 
too, something of an artist? Yet she never received 
recognition beyond a careless thank you, an invita- 


3 o 8 


UP AND COMING 


tion to some place where no one worth-while would 
ever see them! Perhaps he was ashamed of the 
things, labelled them as impossible, crude—still, she 
had done them for him with no thought of self 
gain. Besides, the pictures this Dunlevy person did 
were not worth the second glance—her vases seemed 
like thawing icicles and her roses like spilled cans 
of tomato soup! Yet he hailed her as a coming 
artist—just because she was a Dunlevy—so, after 
all, he was a snob. But he must not forget his 
promise, not to marry unless she was willing—and 
she was not. A fine daughter-in-law this haughty 
beggar would be for his dear mother who had 
brought his success to pass—oh, men were the 
wretches—every last one of them. She was glad 
she had no sons to be ashamed of her! Come, what 
was the truth—was he to be married—tell her! 

*‘I have little hope of marrying Miss Dunlevy,” 
Jones said in his quiet, final way. 

“Have you asked her?” Bertha screamed, unable 
to restrain herself. 

“I have little hope of marrying her—the matter 
does not concern you. Little that I do does concern 
you. I am not interested in what you do.” 

“No, you would not care if I lay dead—only to 
be glad,” she was hysterical, beyond shrewd 
questioning. 

“I should not be glad,” rather bored by the 
situation. 

“I should—IVe nothing to live for.” 

“Have any of us?” 


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309 


Her round eyes glittered at him. Then she re¬ 
sumed. “Did she think herself too good for you— 
I’m sure it was not consideration of my feelings! 
Without a second dollar to her name and her father 
a cheat. Who does she expect to marry,” her red 
hands on her hips as her head tossed in mockery, 
“Milady Dunlevy—a fine one to set herself up.” 

Jones’ hand shot out until it was stopped by a 
stinging sensation, he had struck Bertha across the 
mouth. 

“I beg pardon,” he said presently, nauseated at 
the incident. It recalled those long ago, hideous 
quarrels with his father as presiding tyrant, usually 
Jones the innocent victim of his wrath. 

Bertha clung to him, won by the blow. The 
ancient notion that a man who beats one must care 
considerably still lingered in her mind. 

“It is awful to be neglected, darling, think of the 
first years—when there wasn’t any Justine—and you 
were so lonesome—we were good pals, weren’t we ?” 

“Yes, yes,” wondering how he could break away, 
“and if it satisfies you, I am not expecting to be 
married. But leave her name out of our conver¬ 
sations.” 

Reporting progress to Poppy, Bertha was un¬ 
decided as to what to say. 

“He was so sore when I slammed her that he 
slapped me,” she admitted, “I think the little fool 
turned him down—he’s not very good at lying.” 

“Then you’re safe,” Poppy pronounced, “because 
he’s not the kind to care often.” 


310 


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Mollified, Bertha began embroidering a dresser set 
for Mrs. Bynight. 

• ••••«• 

The fashionable spring kettledrum held by the 
allied charities was occasion for Jones to talk fur¬ 
ther with Justine. He had had only stray moments 
with her during the long tedious interim during 
which he paid superficial compliments regarding her 
work while she made equally superficial answers. 
Justine was tense as an unsprung trap, resentful of 
her love for Jones because she was keen enough to 
admit its hopelessness. His clumsy efforts to send 
flowers and books, to meet her unexpectedly both 
pleased and irritated. Justine was out to prove that 
an indefinite situation was one which had no excuse 
for existing and those who were a party to it were 
culpable. Her review of the matter was something 
like this: She loved Jones—^very good and also very 
bad. She was happy because he loved her. But it 
meant little in the future. Jones reminded her of a 
man who had climbed to the mountain peak, seeming 
to be a successful explorer. Yet, reaching up from 
the valley was a fine, strong cord which fastened 
about his foot in order that he never forget his origi¬ 
nal starting point. What should sever that cord ? 

Justine was removed from such entanglements, 
her birthright had been free of them, no matter what 
its other handicaps. No slavish gratitude towards 
someone who helped banish an impossible past 
entered into her calculations. Paradox that it was, 
she would not have loved Jones had he not possessed 


UP AND COMING 


311 

such emotions. It proved his fineness that, no mat¬ 
ter what his success, he would never ignore she who 
inspired it. Therefore, the thing for Justine to do 
was to forge ahead in art—and love Jones in her 
heart. Love was but one angle of anyone’s life. She 
had seen more angles at twenty-six than most women 
do at sixty! 

Jones brought his mother to the opening of the 
kettledrum. She had been asked to dress in an 
i860 costume and pour tea but refused, contributing 
generously to the tea-table fund instead—to every¬ 
one’s relief. 

Jones who had been general benefactor and ad¬ 
viser had occasion to consult Justine who had been 
“socially revived to the extent of being in charge 
of the fishpond for the crippled children’s guild” 
as she told him, also taking orders for bookplated 
designs “to aid a young woman of mature years and 
immature pocketbook.” 

He was amused at her crisp manner, making him 
feel that to lapse into romantic remarks would be 
as out of place as to have a Santa Claus impersonator 
at a Fourth of July celebration. 

“But you can’t keep me at arm’s length always,” 
he warned, the day the kettledrum was to begin, 
“don’t delude yourself.” 

“You think not?” she said quietly, “did you say 
one or two dollars for a chance at the fishpond? 
I think one dollar quite enough.” 

“Make it a thousand—then you won’t be crowded 
—and I can have more time with you.” 


312 


UP AND COMING 


A bevy of Orpingtons,” as Jones called the 

patronesses, swept down to ask if “dear Mr. Bynight 
would come watch the Spanish dancers, the tableau 
at the end of the number was fearfully lame—and 
would Miss Dunlevy step into the office? Mr. 
Finlay wanted to speak about his bookplate order.” 

When Jones brought his mother to Justine that 
evening, Martha was embarrassed. The brilliancy of 
the affair dazzled her. Since she had abandoned 
trying to keep pace with modern events, such a gay, 
noisy scene as this with people trying to attract her 
son’s attention and assault his bankroll made her 
wish she had pleaded fatigue and remained at home. 

Jones felt he ought to bring her, it was not right 
to come alone. The fair would do her good. Be¬ 
sides, he was still eager that she make friends with 
Justine. But the moment he looked at Justine’s 
regal self wearing a smouldering red brocade and a 
diamond coronet on a level with her dark, even 
brows, he realized he had attempted the impossible. 

“So glad both of you are here,” extending her 
hands, “You shall not escape until I’ve exacted toll. 
By the way. I’m unusually elegant tonight, see my 
joo-els! This coronet was mother’s, an old friend 
bought it when the crash came. She happened into 
town a few days ago and I felt no hesitancy in 
accepting the loan. It is wonderful to be wearing 
some of mother’s pretties—she was such a boo’ful 
person, like the fairy tale illustrations of queen- 
mothers.” 

“It looks as if it had always belonged to you,” 


UP AND COMING 


313 


Jones commented, *‘l never remember seeing you 
look more charming—did you, mother?’’ 

“Never,” there was a sadness in Martha’s voice. 

“I only meant the coronet, not myself, my disposi¬ 
tion is ingrowing for I loathe charity bazaars and 
yet,” shrugging her sloping white shoulders, “I 
shall make many sales through having been a nice, 
tame thing, dedicating three evenings to selling non¬ 
sense. The people who patronize your booth sel¬ 
dom realize how dearly they are going to pay for 
the sport. Have a try at the fishpond, Mrs. By¬ 
night, now do!” 

Jones laid a bill on the table. “Let’s see if you 
corral a whale or worry a minnow,” he urged, “that’s 
the way—aha—now, what is it?” 

Martha unwrapped the small package, a lace-edged 
powder puff. 

“I shall give it back to be refished for,” she said, 
“it would be of no use to me.” 

“You’re a dear,” praised Justine, “would that 
everyone would do likewise, we could give the 
crippled children gold-plated crutches. How about 
a bookplate—half of the price goes for the same 
cause, you know.” 

Martha shook her head. “I write my name in,” 
she confided, “those labels always seemed like a 
public library. Jones has one.” 

“But an impossible thing that someone gave me 
years ago—I want one of your designing—come. 
I insist,” with mock seriousness, “you must study 
my aura and lay bare the esoteric secrets of my 


314 


UP AND COMING 


soul in your black and white symbols. How does 
that sound?” 

“You mean it?” she asked softly. 

“Of course—Fve meant everything I ever said to 
you,” his finger tips as they laid down another bill 
for deposit managed to touch her own. 

Martha studied the crowd. 

“I don’t believe you would use the one I would 
design-” 

“I have ordered a bookplate—you don’t dare re¬ 
fuse me!” 

“You shall have one—^howdy do, lamb pies, pre¬ 
pare for the worst of shearings,” turning to ac¬ 
quaintances who lingered nearby. 

“Good night. Miss Dunlevy,” Martha was eager 
to be away, “I’m sure your booth is going to be a 
great success.” 

The rest of her visit, Martha kept close to her 
son’s elbow. She felt disturbed and disapproving. 
She thought these people chattering, superlative dolls 
not cognizant of the vital needs, incapable of real 
self-denial. This kettledrum served as an excuse for 
displaying their surface charms and permitted scan¬ 
dalous excitement. Her personal, limited method of 
charity was still her measuring stick for all the rest 
of the world. She thought Jones far too generous 
although it pleased her to see how important he 
was among them and to hear his praises sung. 

She prevailed upon him to leave shortly after ten 
o’clock. Laden with foolish purchases and gay 
favors, they left the hall. 



UP AND COMING 


315 


‘‘Don’t you want to go by and say good night to 
Justine?” he asked. 

“She is busy, I won’t bother . . . she did look 
beautiful,” as if to sugarcoat her refusal. 

So Jones did not go by either. He decided to 
take his mother home and return to see if he could 
prevail upon Justine to accept his escort. She had 
seemed tantalizing, a thousand times more attrac¬ 
tive and aloof in her setting this evening. He began 
wondering how much emotion she was capable of 
experiencing, could her sudden success compensate 
for the absence of all else? 


V 


CHAPTER XXXV 

“My, that thing cost a sight of money,” Martha 
commented as they drove homeward, “seems to me 
if they’d take the same amount and use it for the 
poor the whole thing would be easier and get quicker 
results.” 

“But no one would have had a good time,” he 
explained, “this fair, while stupid and wasteful to a 
degree, furnishes blase grown-ups a legitimate 
chance to make fools of themselves, a mighty whole¬ 
some purpose in itself! We all need such a chance— 
you saw those men dressed as infants with nursing 
bottles that people filled with coins to be used for a 
diet kitchen of some sort—now, they enjoyed that as 
much as the people who depend on the diet kitchen. 
The Mother Goose characters got real thrills from 
being ridiculous—so did all the dancers and singers 
and even Justine with her mother’s diamond coronet 
is experiencing normal self-conceit, standing behind 
her fishpond and holding up members of society for 
orders. The memory of such a time makes every¬ 
day living easier—don’t you see?” 

“I don’t,” objected his mother, “I was too hard at 
work for too long to know much about playing. 

316 


UP AND COMING 


317 


None of these pepole drudged—;they work with their 
brains—or dimples—but not their hands. And their 
brains weren’t worried almost into a fever trying to 
plan how to pay the bills with nobody helping but 
you, dear,” patting his arm. “I guess playing Mother 
Goose characters or being a Gypsy fortune teller 
wouldn’t have much attraction for them after that.” 

Jones was silent. '‘You liked the art booth?” he 
asked presently. 

“I guess it was splendid—^you said so. But I felt 
out of place tonight, I wish I had never gone.” 

“Why?” he asked with patient politeness. 

“It reminded me of something. One winter—I 
never told this—things were pretty lean with our 
family and your father was acting his worst. My 
eyes gave out from sewing at night and I didn’t have 
a stray dollar for glasses. I knew I could not let 
my eyes go—they meant our living. I had borrowed 
all I could from friends and so—when you children 
were at school and your father sleeping off his drunk 
—I sneaked off and applied to the poor master!” 

“Mother!” every selfish and sentimental idea 
seemed clouded. 

“Yes, so I did. It was mighty hard. The ques¬ 
tions they asked, the red tape, the awful people you 
have to sit with until your turn comes. He jacted as 
if I was a cheater, said I was so much better off than 
most he hadn’t the right to do much. I told him 
I didn’t want anything but free medical attention— 
finally, he decided I was ‘worthy’ and sent me to a 
free medical dispensary! I waited two hours and 


UP AND COMING 


318 

then lost my turn because I had to hurry home and 
get dinner. I went back the next morning but it was 
only for ear and nose cases! I waited about a week 
trying to see the doctor. Then your Aunt Min came 
to see us and gave me ten dollars on the side—that 
was one reason I sent her all I did last Christmas— 
and I went to a doctor and asked if he would see me 
for that much. I had to save my self-respect. He 
charged me five for the examination and I used the 
frames of your grandmother’s glasses and the lenses 
just came within the five dollars left over. Can’t you 
see what I mean—that the booth for the blind and all 
—it made me realize that only a few years ago I was 
asking the poor-master to help me get glasses—and 
here you are, head almost of the whole shooting 
match! I could have given the blind booth a hundred 
dollars if I’d liked! That has been worth it, after 
all. Only contrasts hurt—even if they are years 
apart.” 

Jones put an arm about her. “You’re splendid,” 
he comforted, “we won’t ever talk of it again. See 
here. I’ve been thinking of your birthday this sum¬ 
mer—you’re one of the few not afraid to have them 
■—I’m going to insist on the girls’ coming back no 
matter if Pat’s beauty parlor goes into a receiver’s 
hands and Marian’s university becomes a movie 
studio. They can bring or leave behind as much of 
their families as they wish but we must have a dinner 
with a cake and candles and—a surprise! Such a 
surprise, too I It will prevent your ever remembering 
lean wolf days.” 


UP AND COMING 


319 


“I didn’t mean to tell you,” conscious she had 
disturbed him. 

“Why not? I want you to always tell anything 
that bothers.” 

“You needn’t have the birthday dinner, drag the 
girls on in the heat of summer. I’m not quite 
childish.” 

“Don’t you want us? To wish and blow out 
candles and let you pet and scold us ? Don’t tell me 
you prefer an afternoon bridge or a day pigeon 
shoot.” 

“Of course, I always want all of you—if you feel ’ 
the same.” 

He did not return to take Justine home. Romantic 
self-interest was sidetracked. He read aloud to his 
mother and then made her an eggnog, feeling quite 
the competent attendant. After midnight he went 
to his study to correct proof—glancing at Justine’s 
portrait from time to time. 

Bertha and Poppy, however, saw to it they 
attended the bazaar—not to purchase what both 
termed “bad buys” or see at near range the social 
favorites but to scrutinize Justine whom, they learned 
from the press, was one of the most fascinating 
young persons present. 

Oblivious of this, Justine helped them to fishpond 
trys, almost bored to tears at the procedure. Bertha’s 
frown concerned her not. She had heard of Bertha 
through the usual backhanded method of comment 
but she had never seen her. To her this overweight 
person in an awful lilac shade gown wearing furs of 


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Spanish goat like a nouveau riche and reeking of 
musk was merely another monstrosity one must 
endure for the sake of the cause. 

Not until late afternoon when Justine spied Bertha 
and Jones together, Jones in that unwilling don’t- 
detain-me-please attitude, did she realize who she 
had served earlier in the day. Despite her dauntless 
spirit, she was amazed to find that it hurt—even as 
Martha felt hurt when she recalled ailing eyes and 
empty purse and was cognizant that her son had bid 
a hundred dollars for an autographed book of 
poems. 

Bertha and Poppy had waited for Jones’ arrival. 
They sallied up to him in a spirit of conquest. Poppy 
became concerned with a counter of beaded girdles, 
leaving Bertha a clear field for reproach. 

“Are you surprised to see us here—ashamed, 
likely enough,” she began, “however, she took our 
money for the fishpond—she is certainly very 
grand!” 

“Don’t discuss personalities,” he implored, won¬ 
dering how he could be rid of them, “it’s cheap to 
hang around for me, only to talk of someone who 
doesn’t know or care about any of it. What can I 
buy you ?” 

“Take us to supper in the flower-garden tea 
room,” she proposed. 

“I’m not able to stay on myself—I’m toastmaster 
at a club thing.” 

“Introduce me to your friends,” she jeered. 

Poppy played benevolent rescuer. “Look at this. 


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cutie/’ holding out a coral beaded belt, ‘‘this is my 
choice~what would be yours?” 

“ril have it,” Jones told the debutante who was 
all eyes and ears, “take this jet one, Bertha, it would 
become you—the two, please—keep the change— 
thank you so much—ah, glad you came—goodbye— 
Fll phone.” 

Before they protested they were escorted to the 
door, the band drowning out Bertha’s unpleasant 
remarks. 

Outside Poppy explained her tactics. “Never 
stage a big scene unless you’ve the key to the door,” 
she advised soberly, “you’d have done well raving 
there with his sort standing around.” 

Bertha was silent. 

“That’s as fine a girdle as I ever saw,” she added, 
“shall we go to the Dutch Grill for supper ?” 

Bertha tossed the girdle away. “I hate him,” she 
said between set teeth, “I hate her—I don’t want the 
thing.” 

“Hi-missus, youse dropped this,” a newsie had 
overtaken them. 

Poppy recaptured the package and gave a dime as 
reward. “I’ll care for it until you come to,” she 
informed Bertha more in sorrow than anger. “Some¬ 
times I think you’re getting a little off. I warned 
you this would all happen but you wouldn’t listen. 
Now I’m trying to fix it so you won’t lose.” 

“I hate him,” was Bertha’s only response. 

“No—her with her swell accent and hair as glossy 
as a bird’s—she is the one you hate. I don’t blame 


21 


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UP AND COMING 


you. I understand. Pd rather remember poor Fred 
crushed under car wheels than to think of him 
dancing attendance beside Justine Dunlevy’s fish¬ 
pond !” 

That night Jones waited to take Justine home but 
she would have none of him. 

“Mr. Finlay has made up a party—we’re going to 
supper or some such superfluous thing. Thank you 
just as much,” laying clothes over the counters of her 
booth. 

“Finlay,” Jones wrinkled his eyebrows. “That 
Lap reindeer herder! You know his story—rescued 
by missionaries—educated by them—made a stake in 
Valdez and had sense enough to spend part of it for 
a real education, dancing master airs et al I Surely 
you don’t approve of him?” 

Justine regarded him thoughtfully. “Is it because 
he was originally a Lap reindeer herder?” a trifle 
sardonically. 

Jones flushed. “No, a cockney carpenter’s grand¬ 
son has nothing to say about such things—but 
because he is so fat of body and lean of soul—men 
loathe him. Clammy, huge hands, pop eyes, bull 
neck—making headv/ay no matter at what 
cost.” 

Justine shrugged her shoulders. “I have worn 
different frocks for the fishpond and every day he 
has said something really poetical of them. Today 
I reminded him of a June sunset—wasn’t that 
pretty?” she was childish in her desire to tease and 
conceal her own opinion. 


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“Pd like to shake you,” Jones remarked politely, 
“you’ve slumped in your work as well—you’re trad¬ 
ing on your name not your technique.” 

“I’m about to succumb to interior decorating— 
Chinese decorations in oil are almost too hi-brow. 
There are so many stuffy boudoirs I can do in 
exotic designs—I’m beginning to enjoy having more 
money than I need, a cab when it storms, week-end 
parties to enjoy. I don’t miss the old days, the 
game of nip and tuck never appealed. And when I 
have decorated all the stuffy boudoirs and painted all 
the furniture and so on, if I can’t sell my own things 
because I won’t exhibit in the Bynight galleries for 
reasons all my own—why—why not an ex-reindeer 
herder? It suggests Santa Claus, that title—a most 
delightful person!” 

“You think I take you seriously?” 

“No, that is why I can’t have anything to do with 
you,” dusting the counter with an amusing stage 
parlor maid air of concern. 

“May I take you home tomorrow?” 

“No, nor the next nor the closing day—nor ever.” 

“Was it because—she was here?” he was helpless 
with shame, anger. 

“Which she?” smiling mercilessly. “Your mother 
was a dear-” 

“I say, you’re beastly.” 

“Father said I had that reputation. He had me 
battle with creditors when I was eight—sometimes 
I scratched.” 

“Why can’t I see you home?” 



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‘‘Because we are like two congenial persons, one 
obliged to live in North America and one in South 
America. They would like, both of them, to be on 
a neighborhood basis—^lending books, sharing flower 
seeds and sitting before wood fires of a winter even¬ 
ing, that stimulating intimacy. But one is in North 
and one in South America so they merely express 
their wishes and let it go at that.” 

“I believe in bridges since you stoop to such 
flowery similes-” 

“As for the other, she is unimportant. I admit 
watching you at the door, sheepish, rude—” Justine 
was amazed at her ability to falsify. Her fingers 
trembled as she laid aside the duster. 

“Fm sorry I bothered,” he said, turning away but 
she laid a detaining hand on his arm. 

“I was going to mail this—the rough design for 
the bookplate—won’t you post it back with any 
suggestions ?” 

He hurried out lest he see the obese Finlay taking 
her arm, wrapping her cape about her. He did not 
look at the bookplate until he was in his study. Then 
he realized how wise and tender Justine really was. 

The center of the design was a scene from his own 
near-estate, the front of the house veiled with trees. 
At the four corners were sketched the symbols of 
“his aura” or whatever asinine thing he had asked 
for. A carpenter’s chest was one with a laurel 
wreath and a wee, halfway hidden American flag 
to tell that “bread labor” might become famous in 
America. Another was a self-complacent Buddha 




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325 


—Jones’ impersonal life that the world lauded. A 
third was a palette covered with cobwebs—delayed 
ambition. The fourth was a conventional Valentine 
type of heart, around it was a chain so small it 
required a magnifying glass to confirm the suspicion, 
the chain leading to a minute cradle. She had told 
it all! He laid it aside—was there no hint of the 
future—of herself? Picking it up again he saw 
entwined about the letters of his name were birds, 
each flying a trifle higher than the other, hope gradu¬ 
ally reaching fruition 1 



CHAPTER XXXVI 


The birthday dinner brought only ennui to Jones, 
he refused to name it disappointment. Pat and her 
lively son had been the first to arrive. There was 
method in this since Pat wished “the first go” at 
Jones so Owen kindly reported. 

Pat lost no time in sharing her secret. She was 
engaged to a congressman from Pittsburg, a widower 
whose married children were most affable concern¬ 
ing the event. Although it was to remain a secret 
until the following June, she felt Jones should know 
at once. It had been Jones who helped and believed 
in her, she owed him what money could not repay 
but she felt her happiness and secure future would 
be his reward. She had sometimes felt he was 
ashamed of her beauty parlor—to be sure she mani¬ 
cured the haughtiest of art’s patronesses but that was 
not the point- 

Jones interrupted. “One is ashamed only of what 
they are afraid of,” he exclaimed. “And one is 
afraid of what they cannot understand.” 

To Pat this sounded like some cult so she did not 
contradict. She chatted about her fiance, what a 
dear he was, a father to Owen and spoiling her most 
dreadfully. He chaffed at the long, secret engage- 

326 



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327 


merit but she wanted to turn her business over to 
Frizz—did he remember her sad story? If she gave 
it up during the season the customers would go else¬ 
where but if she made the transfer next June when 
vacations were on the patrons would return in the 
fall with their minds intent on opening town houses 
and aranging affairs and would be twice as apt to 
stay with Frizz. She wanted to come home and be 
married if Jones didn’t mind, the plan for the com¬ 
munity church appealed strongly as the setting— 
with a reception at the lodge afterwards. She even 
decided as to this second wedding gown—canary 
velvet with a head-dress of golden plumes in lieu of 
a girlish veil. What did Jones think of this ? The 
congressman, Tim Coushaine, had heard a great deal 
of Jones’ store and magazine, he was eager to know 
him—he would buy a great many new things, too. 
They meant to send Owen to a good prep school and 
later to Yale. As for the first Owen, she seldom 
thought of him. He had justified everyone’s worst 
suspicions, only his monthly pittance keeping him 
from unpleasant situations. 

Jones was not interested with Pat’s information. 
She was no longer helpless, in trouble—further aid 
was superfluous. As nearly as he could analyze, 
Pat’s scheme of things was a somewhat lazy philoso¬ 
phy to treat everyone as she would like to be treated 
unless it involved self-denial. She took a sporting 
chance on things turning out successfully in the 
hereafter. She did not love the congressman but 
that in no way interfered with the wisdom of the 


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marriage. She would do him credit and win for 
herself a conventional old age. She would grace his 
red brick house and re-arrange its early McKinley 
furnishings. She would be good friends with his 
children and marry her son to a society bud, be con¬ 
sidered a model dowager! For what more could 
one wish ? 

She glibly praised Jones’ new acquisitions in 
paintings and rugs and called her mother ‘‘a dear 
old dear” and was really eager to meet Justine. 
Imagine Jones being the patron for a Dunlevy’s 
wares! Wasn’t America wonderful? Truth to tell, 
Pat still manufactured a neat family tree which the 
congressman and his family had accepted as literal. 

She brought her mother no end of trifles—pink 
satin mules, a green silk boodle bag, Spanish combs 
set with blue stones, perfumes at twenty dollars the 
ounce and a false bang of silvery gray curls at 
which last Martha rebelled without any pretence at 
politeness. 

Pat was polite but not sincere, lavish but not 
generous, the sort of woman who begrudged money 
for necessities but never for luxuries—say a sealskin 
coat at any cost but never mind kitchen aprons. As 
Jones watched Pat in her orange tulle with black 
ostrich trim splendor, he wondered how she would 
have developed if left to her own resources. 

He had not expected Justine to have anything in 
common with Pat. As Justine answered Pat’s 
vivacious, flattering questions, Jones visualized 
Justine pouring tea, the gracious hostess and Pat 


UP AND COMING 


329 


sitting in a visitor’s chair—the true and proper way 
it should have been. 

Taking Justine home and talking nothing but com¬ 
monplaces, odious to both, he returned to find 
Marian’s wire saying which train she was coming 
on. She was not bringing the children, this was to 
be a rest for Marian as well as a family celebration. 

‘T call Justine quite toppo,” Pat said as if con¬ 
ferring a high compliment, ‘'a charming girl despite 
her reverses and too heavy eyebrows. I heard shock¬ 
ing things about her dad—what is there to it, Jones?” 

“Jones is very fond of her,” Martha hurried to 
add, “he bought the portrait years before he met 
the original. Ever since she has come to Cornwall 
—talented, spirited child—Jones has helped her. 
Now her hard times are past—you know how it 
goes, a little success and everyone flocks to applaud. 
Besides, she was a Dunlevy!” 

“Nothing serious between you two?” demanded 
Pat with concern, “I should hate to believe it.” 

“Why?” Jones was looking out the windows, 
planning where to put a new bird-house. He 
wondered why he had not had the poor taste to have 
made love to Justine during the brief drive in—at 
least he could have stood for being called a cad—and 
kissed her to prove that he was! 

“It would never do,” Pat said patronizingly, “she 
is so different from all of us—now my Tim, million¬ 
aire that he is, tended bar for Mike Cheney in the 
early days. He’s proud of it—when I let him be! 
His first wife was a very good person—but limited. 


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She was a waitress. She never lived to see his 
political rise—it was better that way, too. As for 
Justine, I could never talk up to her for long—poor 
old Bertha would be more comfortable as a steady 
diet—^you rascal 

Jones made no reply. Martha raised a warning 
hand but Pat swept on: 

“I can’t classify as a hi-brow. Because I see how 
childish hi-brows are, they all fall for my anti-tan 
and sunburn paste and want their nails clipped the 
same shape as the popular toe dancer has hers. This 
girl would keep us on mental tiptoes—she would 
never choose a filet mignon with trimmings in pre¬ 
ference to a cup of orange pekoe and a wafer! She 
wears that green organdie dress as if it were a 
queen’s ermine. I’m sure she’d quote poetry in the 
morning and despise a nice screen melodrama, no 
matter if the production cost a cool million. She’d 
rather read essays out of a thin, gray book! Oh, 
no Jones—never—never-” 

“I never suggested you and Mr. Coushaine marry 
her,” he said, ‘'so why picture the mental cruelty so 
vividly?” He changed the subject since it was 
futile to pursue it. He realized it was his own 
doings that he had ploughed and sown the field for 
Pat as he had for Marian, that the lack of'that first, 
heroic effort had crippled and limited their under¬ 
standing. 

When he met Marian at the train he was conscious 
of further ennui—alias disappointment. Marian was 
a tired yet contented woman shabbily dressed—not 



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331 


the unusual shabbiness Justine achieved but bespeak¬ 
ing unwise economy. His mother’s economy had 
been wiser—she accepted cast-offs because they were 
better than the things she could purchase. Marian 
scorned such aid, she was forever irritated at the 
physical demands of life. They proved barriers be¬ 
tween her wishes, things intellectual. A meal was 
something to be hurried through so one could do the 
things they desired. Yet her coat and hat unmis¬ 
takably bought at a season-end sale were more pre¬ 
ferable to Jones than Pat’s ultra magnificence. 

Marian was happy to see him, she had much to ask 
and even more advice to bestow. She thought her 
mother’s rooms ideal—she adored Jones’ moonlight 
garden and was in awe of his last pedigreed motor. 
She wanted to talk over enlarging his Egyptian de¬ 
partment along certain lines, Robert had suggested 
it—he had novel ideas for writing pamphlets to ad¬ 
vertise the project. Yes, the children were splendid, 
the oldest had written a poem for the grandmother’s 
birthday, the youngest a story! It was a relief to be 
away from the household cares. Poor Robert would 
have a hard time of it—still, he insisted that she 
should come. Her eyes were still weak and her 
back ached if she did heavy lifting. Help was a 
luxury due to Robert’s salary. There were so many 
things they had to subscribe to and read. They 
had a Japanese school boy who washed dishes and 
did other tasks in exchange for his board. The 
family were to eat at a cafeteria while she was 
away, it was easier for Robert. He was teaching at 


332 


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summer school to help prepare for his sabbatical 
and cooking never was his forte. 

“A cafeteria?” said Jones, ‘‘where you take a tray 
and march around to select seven cents worth of 
beans and a penny of butter and so on—^the children 
to come along, too?” 

“We always do on Sundays, it lets us get to the 
organ recital on time and costs little more than if we 
ate at home,” Marian informed him. “Food seems 
such a nuisance,” drifting into news of her own 
activities until Jones wondered if his sister had 
joined the army of the intellectually deluded who no 
longer feared God but complexes and whose wildest 
story of human interest would be that of the tardy 
flapper at class and the irritated professor asking, 
“How will you have your tea?” in hopes of humiliat¬ 
ing her, only to be rebuffed by the answer, “Without 
the lemon, please.” 

From the moment Pat had descended from the 
train in company with her son, Jones was impatient 
for the whole thing to be done with. He even felt 
more at ease with Bertha and her complaints than 
these sisters who considered him such a “wonder” 
and “a dear” and “a generous love.” 

It was obvious Pat and Marian would not 
grieve over their parting. Marian disapproved 
of Pat, analyzed her weaknesses, accused her of 
a father inhibition whereas Pat regarded Marian 
as a booky frump and offered a recipe for peeling 
her skin! 

Jones was well fortified for the mutual disapproval 


UP AND COMING 


333 


of Justine and Marian by the time he introduced 
them at the store art gallery. Justine regarded 
Marian as one of those “incomplete and therefore 
insuiferable persons” and Marian looked at Justine 
with the pity only intellectuals are capable of extend¬ 
ing to one outside their realm. Justine was so 
poised, sure not only of herself but her ancestors, 
her assured position for generations was in contrast 
to Marian’s narrowed, nervous horizon. Marian 
shone to best advantage on the campus; Justine was 
equally at home in a shabby lodging or a ball room. 

He was curious whether or not his sisters analyzed 
him in his absence, whether they divined the conflict. 
But nothing of this occurred to either. Jones was 
still their legitimate prey—and a “dear” as well! 
They were now somewhat in awe of him. Even Pat 
refrained from asking as to Bertha although the 
latter’s gift to Mrs. Bynight was a thing of gaudy 
importance. She did name Justine “high divide” in 
a spirit of ridicule but Marian was the only one to 
whom she confided her inspiration. 

The reunion was as futile as when people go to 
New York for the first time to become attune with 
its ways and find themselves dragging in their own 
past instead. Since it is difficult to form new ties 
in the metropolis, they begin telephoning persons 
they know at home or school and are, therefore, con¬ 
fronted with tag ends of the past, coming away with 
no knowledge of New York save tourist cafes, 
theaters and musty gossip! 

Jones’ surprise—the generous check to cover the 


334 


UP AND COMING 


expenses needed in building the community church 
—seemed boastful, he wished he had given it at 
another time. He was annoyed at the praise, grati¬ 
tude, suspecting every remark as being slightly in¬ 
sincere. He would have welcomed some unfavorable 
criticism such as Justine had made. 

He was glad when they were gone, promising to 
come for the initial Easter Day service that next 
spring, each tolerant of “mother’s funny idea about 
building a queer church.” 

“It is pleasant to be alone,” Martha said, “I feel 
younger when I am with you.” 

“Do you?” he asked, he felt he had closed the 
doors on an unwise past in which he played the 
benevolent fool, “well. Pm glad to be alone, since 
you’ve confessed first.” 

“They are all precious to me but none approach 
your place—in fact, they seem to crowd you out of 
it. Perhaps I am growing old—narrowed in my 
ability to be interested or enjoy—I shall be panicky 
by and by, if I don’t have a custard on custard day 
and junket when junket is due me!” 

“You will never grow old,” he lied valiantly, it was 
easier to carry on the pretense without spectators, 
“You were happy, weren’t you? I wanted it to be 
the happiest of all your birthdays.” 

“So it was—but you made every birthday happy,” 
she reminded, “do you remember the one when you 
brought me a footstool you had made in manual 
training? How many hours you spent on it—what 
comfort it gave me. You had saved from your paper 


UP AND COMING 


335 


money enough to buy two roses, a pink and a white 
and the boys teased you because I was your girl—and 
you fought them and got a bloody nose but the roses 
were not injured! Your father was away that day—• 
we had such a good time baking a cake and making 
veal salad—as good as chicken—I remember you sat 
at the head of the table—we all took hold of hands 
and sang a hymn before we ate!” 

^‘And you never told how bad your neuralgia was 
—until I wakened in the night and found you walk¬ 
ing the floor and moaning—you pretended so beauti¬ 
fully, never failing a chap.” 

“Nor have you failed! Girls are different. Now 
—my church—to know that little meeting place is 
there where all may come—it gives me much joy. 
And you are the one I have to thank—^the same dear 
son.” 

“Thank no one,” he begged, “we know that the 
church stands for our love, the finest symbol we 
could find. Whether Pm a hopeless pagan while you 
pretend to care about original sin and eternal damna¬ 
tion, that church stands for the love of a mother and 
her son.” 

She had meant to speak further about Justine but 
after this, she refused to torture herself. She wanted 
to mentally bask in the remembrance of his words— 
“that church stands for the love of a mother and her 


CHAPTER XXXVII 

When next Martha would have spoken of 
Justine, it was too late. She had sailed that next 
week to join her father in South America. Martha 
read of it in the morning paper, a guilty fear pos¬ 
sessing her. Why when Jones’ love offered itself 
should she go away? After a day intrigued with 
conflicting emotions, Martha came to no conclusion. 
Just as she had retired into the boundaries of her 
rooms, so had she taken refuge in “a mother’s feel¬ 
ings.” The subject, therefore, remained un¬ 
mentioned. 

That Jones grew unpleasantly grim of face, caustic 
of speech, listless in manner was not for her to 
observe. Justine’s portrait still hung in the library, 
she heard her son speak her name to others in that 
careless fashion of a mere friend who wishes another 
mere friend well. 

Surely there could have been no serious quarrel! 
Was it that Justine had not cared? Inconsistent in¬ 
dignation at the thought almost spurred her to inter¬ 
rogation. 

Meantime the building of the church proceeded, 
each blow of the hammers that resounded in her 


336 


UP AND COMING 


337 


rooms reminded her of the blessed foundation—the 
love of a mother and son. She could not ask him 
of Justine! Nor would he have answered. 

The news of Justine’s sailing had been told by a 
tertium quid during an afternoon crush. He had 
not believed it. The tertium quid asked him to 
verify the rumor at an evening garden party—what 
a fortunate thing one had cards to everything, other¬ 
wise he would have stood on the curb without the 
Beaux Arts Clubhouse until she left the affair. 

That evening when he found Justine, she was sur¬ 
rounded by satellites whom he banished in short 
order. 

“What does this mean?” he began sharply, “the 
rumor of your going.” 

“I expected you would come rushing in this even¬ 
ing—I asked Perry Brenton to see you this after¬ 
noon, and managed to spread the glad tidings. It 
is quite true—there is nothing to become hectic 
about!” 

He made her leave the garden party within the 
hour and they lingered outside on the curb, as if 
neither had had cards to go within. Jones demanded 
where he might talk with her undisturbed. 

“I’m leaving the apartment Monday, it’s a medley 
of packing boxes— would you mind?” 

“Let’s go on,” he ordered, opening the door of 
his machine. 

The small apartment Justine leased since her social 
revival was near the building Jones had once lived 
in, it consisted of the usual living room and kitchen- 


22 


338 


UP AND COMING 


ette. He had often called here when Justine wanted 
him to meet some friend or discuss work without 
eavesdroppers but she had forbidden him ever since 
the springtime kettledrum—it was now early 
August. He found the place in an ugly state with 
trunks in the middle of the floor, dismantled, shabby 
walls and the kitchenette betraying an alarming 
number of streaky washed milk bottles. It was 
characteristic for Justine to select such an obviously 
uninviting setting. 

“You can’t stay long,” she announced, tossing off 
her quaint red chiffon cape, “I prefer even this de¬ 
bris to a hotel where a waiter fairly crowds you with 
canapes,” she sat in a stately carved chair, clasping 
her hand over her knee. 

“Try that box—it is nailproof,” she advised, “this 
chair used to stand in grandfather’s study—old Mrs. 
Tuddicombe bought it at the auction and loaned it 
to me—^wasn’t that nice? Thank you for rescuing 
me this evening, it was quite a drag. I was in the 
hands of that fluttery woman with the titian trans¬ 
formation, she insisted on telling in her sugary bari¬ 
tone all about 'dear, dirty London!’ I was about 
_ 

“Won’t you please get to the main issue,” he 
’demanded, “what is it you think you are about to 
do?” 

“I dreaded this final dialogue—I hope you won’t 
be platitudinous or postscripty in your remarks. I’ll 
tell you the truth if you promise not to pace the floor 
or start in informing me that, 'life is a race’ or 'the 




UP AND COMING 


339 


clouds are thickest before dawn—come, that’s a 
go? Well then,” with a toss of her wilful head, “I 
have refused to marry the reindeer herder or to 
stay here loving you and mistrusting myself. If Pm 
going to the devil—even in a refined unsuspected 
sort of way, I don’t want you to come whining about 
that you are sorry. You would be sorry, no doubt 
of it. I’m going down to father with no definite 
plans. I’m telling people I’m to paint miniatures of 
the socially elite in South America—I may, stranger 
things happen. Only I want to go away—it was a 
mistake trying to come here at all. It is a trifle 
wearing to stay on caring for you and you 
caring for me and we haggling about the outcome 
spasmodically—haggling as you once said like 
women over a cab fare.” 

In her silver cloth frock with its brilliant scarlet 
sash and a medieval extravagance of lace, she seemed 
an aloof, altogether heartless person making 
pleasant excuses. He felt aggrieved rather than 
crushed. 

“I don’t think you’ll go,” he began, ‘^not if you 
love me. You will wait a little longer, realizing my 
position—try to compromise. You can’t ask me to 
turn brute at the eleventh hour?” suddenly, he 
caught her up in his arms, punctuating his words 
with kisses on her face and neck. 

She pushed him aside. ‘‘I refuse to drift,” she 
answered forcibly, ‘‘I’ve seen too many bad things 
come of the habit. I’m too prejudiced to compro^ 
mise, too proud to beg! That’s rather platitudinous 



340 


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on my part, isn^t it? The only thing I’ll promise 
you is not to faint! If you feel you must serve 
those who served you, I shall not dissuade you. 
Only you cannot ask me to serve also. Either I 
must be first in your life—or nothing. I am nothing. 

I am not blaming you—there is a tragic amusement 
about the thing—apparently it is so petty and un¬ 
worthy of great confusion. And I despise myself 
for being cold-blooded, clear-eyed. It all comes to 
this: your mother toiled for you, you warranted her 
so doing. You have become a great man both in 
fortune and brain—your sisters are merely side 
issues of the question. Now you cannot refuse your 
mother first homage. You can’t expect her to be 
secondary to your ‘highborn lady wife’ as she would 
term me. You’ll know a Bertha and break your 
heart over a Justine rather than do so! And she will 
never realize all the row. I claim it is wrong. A 
community chapel is not sufficient monument—your 
children should carry on. So—I’m not going to stay 
near. Don’t protest or plead—just go. If I am the 
one who is wrong. I’ll take the consequences, if you 
are in error, the consequences will overtake you.” 

Still Jones battled to explain, the situation was 
exaggerated, a delicate matter of tender readjust¬ 
ment not tragic desperation—would she not be 
patient and understand? Surely, if she loved him 
she would do this much. 

Apparently serene in her heartbreak, Justine re¬ 
peated her alternative. “I don’t want you whining 
about that you are sorry—I don’t want to become 



UP AND COMING 


341 


one of those drifting, embittered, love-wracked 
women who are all too plenty these bright days/' 

So she sailed. After which a telling silence came 
between Martha and her son, a silence pregnant with 
things both dreaded to admit. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


That Justine had refused Bynight’s offer of mar- ^ 
riage became an assured fact in Bertha’s mind. Else 
why, in the midst of success, would she rejoin her 
black sheep parent? This also caused Bertha to 
feel doubly sure of Jones. Poppy had spoken truly 
when she said he was not the sort to “care twice.” 

What others said of Justine’s departure did not 
interest her. The erstwhile reindeer herder lost no 
time in consoling himself with an amiable but light- 
minded heiress from Kalamazoo. People wondered 
at Justine’s lack of worldly sense—what reason to 
ally herself again with a peripatetic rouster such as 
Tom Dunlevy? Others insisted she would return, 
her trip involved a secret mission to help dispose of 
said peripatetic rouster. 

After she left, someone who did clever silhouettes 
became the vogue and Jones published a book of his 
art impressions and a prominent clubman eloped with 
a member of a Russian ballet so Justine’s affairs 
were shunted into the background. 

Bertha was in no haste to ask as to Justine. Life 
for her was such a settled thing composed of the 
material joys of over-eating and taking reducing 
cures simultaneously, buying clothes, indulging in 


342 


UP AND COMING 


343 


sob matinees and gossip and never experiencing 
hardships or mental activities that her conception of 
Jones had become far from accurate. On the whole, 
Bertha was satisfied with things—now Justine had 
sailed. She and her friend Poppy often spent an 
evening comparing notes as to how many of their 
married friends had “come out” as well. The ma¬ 
jority were shabby viragos, not even the so-called 
successful matrons could afford the clothes and ease 
which Bertha did. In her small world. Miss Mullen 
was someone to be cordially welcomed—talked about 
behind her back. She still gave card and theater 
parties and had a monthly dinner club which met at 
the best hotel in Cornwall. 

Bertha now endeavored to be attractive to every¬ 
one else save Jones since he looked upon her not as 
an individual but an albatross. There was no longer 
that flirtatious attempt of “keeping up for Jones.” 
She could be as sullen or frowsy as she liked. The 
only thing Bertha regretted was having “been too 
honest with him at the start—about Jo Willard—my, 
I was the chump.” What once proved her bait now 
became a threatening boomerang. 

“I wonder where Jo is,” Bertha often remarked 
to Poppy, “a married man with children, I suppose 
—her folks wouldn’t let him off.” 

“I bet his wife isn’t as happy as you are,” Poppy 
would comfort. 

“No,” reluctantly, “still, Jo had a wicked way 
that I liked.” 

When, in due time, she mentioned Justine’s ab- 


344 


UP AND COMING 


sence, she was surprised at the lacklustre answer 
that Miss Dunlevy had left for an indefinite stay, he 
really knew little about it. There was a builder’s 
strike on and the work on the church was sadly de¬ 
layed—he was due at a meeting regarding the same 
—would she excuse him from staying longer? 

“Is that all you’ve got to tell?” Bertha’s temper 
was now a self-starter. 

“What is it you would wish to know?” 

“You’re the prig, ain’t you?” she scolded, “I’m 
fed up on your begrudged remarks, never saying 
anything human—if you weren’t such a smart man 
and over six feet—you’d be labelled a Nancy.” 

“If I stayed away,” he corrected, “you’d nag me 
by phone and letter, visit my mother and wait about 
until I came home. Not that you want to see me, 
per se, but you are afraid I will refuse to see you.” 

“Why do you come here then, since you under¬ 
stand everything so wonderfully? Poppy and me 
are company for each other!” 

“I come because it is the easiest thing to do,” he 
admitted, “women like you have a pitiful capacity 
for melancholia, retrospection. You may not ana¬ 
lyze it—I do. You would miss me so that you would 
be beside yourself. No matter what your bank ac¬ 
count or your friends, you feel denied the natural 
outcome—marriage. Ugly things are apt to happen 
when that sort of morbidity gets under way. You 
are proud of having evaded the responsibilities of 
marriage. But that never compensates in the ulti¬ 
mate. You are essential to no one—the most dam- 


UP AND COMING 


345 


nable fate that can befall any of us. Your attitude 
is—if you cannot be essential to me by making me 
happy, you can prove the inevitable thorn in the 
flesh,” he was actually smiling. “Were someone 
else to become interested in you, you would dispose 
of me as an old glove—but you are so narrowed and 
afraid that you can’t let go your clutch of me to 
make room for anything else!” 

“You’re a queer man,” Bertha mused, her temper 
having faded, “I often wonder how you had the 
nerve to buy me that first beer!” 

Strangely, Jones’ patient way of stating facts in¬ 
spired her with sympathy. She did not repeat what 
he had said but told Poppy briefly that she was sure 
she could “still manage him.” 

During the first of a severe winter when Martha 
made daily pilgrimages to the building church, lis¬ 
tened to innumerable suggestions as to its future, 
Jones was brought home to her—a tired, ailing child 
and once more she was happy in important authority. 

His nervous breakdown had occurred during a 
banquet given to the employees, to celebrate the 
firm’s seventy-fifth birthday, one of those elaborate 
fostering-good-will-and-excellent-advertising affairs 
which the sensitive few writhe under while attend¬ 
ing and the gullable many rejoice over—a holiday 
menu, professional entertainers and long speeches 
by the benevolent-minded owners! 

Jones, presiding, had suddenly dropped back in 
his chair in such an alarming manner it caused 
a frightened stir. Someone helped him from 


346 


UP AND COMING 


the room, he was crying inarticulately, someone else 
called his car and a physician—another member of 
the firm took his place and explained away the inci¬ 
dent—an attack of vertigo, nothing alarming. Jones 
was taken home suffering from nervous collapse as 
the morning papers stated “in serious condition and 
under the care of three physicians.’^ 

During the first anxious days when nurses held 
posts of honor and a daily bulletin was given to the 
press, Martha forgot the church, substitute for a 
more vital interest. She seemed a gentle ghost of 
her former bustling self. There was something for 
her to do—the girls to write to, Bertha to console 
over the telephone, the conservatory of flowers to 
arrange and acknowledge, endless friends to assure 
that Jones was going to be on the mend. She 
looked forward to that cantankerous, convalescent 
stage where she would care for him personally, cook 
for him, read to him, watch beside him—together 
they would have sweet hours during which the dis¬ 
mal silence would be broken for all time. 

“Too much work,” “eye strain,” “early hardships” 
were the causes attributed to the illness. Not until 
the night nurse was sent away and Martha took up 
her post with eagerness did she admit the real cause. 
And her part in it! From his mutterings, halfway 
finished sentences she heard the truth. He wanted 
Justine but he could not ask his mother to step aside. 
Her mistake, like others of her era, had been they 
thought first—and wondered afterwards. So Mar¬ 
tha began to wonder. 




UP AND COMING 


347 


Today’s daughters wonder furiously, foolishly, 
yet from it evolve a certain directed thinking which 
reaches a definite goal, right or wrong being rather 
accidental! It was too late for Martha to begin di¬ 
rected thinking—there was no goal ahead. She was 
lost in guilty wondering. True, she had been the 
means whereby her son became a gentleman but also 
a tense, lonely soul, physically broken by his mis¬ 
taken sense of duty. She had not been great enough 
—or farsighted enough—^to step aside when the time 
came. 

During those nights of watching and listening— 
and wondering—Martha realized the right of it. A 
white inner peace was hers. She was impersonal, 
viewing herself as she would a stranger, her early 
romantic, mistaken marriage, the over-emphasized 
virtues, exaggerated, serious sense of duty and 
thwarted personal desires which festered all un¬ 
heeded. It combined into that agonizing joy of giv¬ 
ing her children what she had never had! 

No longer was there a legitimate place for her in 
their homes. In their hearts—yes! Each child, di¬ 
verse as were their interests, loved her for the 
straight game she tried to play. But it was an atti¬ 
tude of mind they held toward her—not open arms. 
Nor did she feel bitter once she realized but rather 
a regret that it had taken Jones’ crash to bring her 
this wisdom. So many American mothers whose 
motto for their children was “Up and Coming” have 
ended in vague wonderings! Her part was to re¬ 
move herself from her son’s environment. How 


348 


UP AND COMING 


clearly she realized the conflict between normal hopes 
and selfless duty which combined to wreck his nerves. 
She was responsible for Bertha—and her future and 
for Justine’s future if Jones did not marry. At 
last she had the straight of it: Jones no longer needed 
her, per se; once this convalescence was ended 
her baked custards and lavender-cooled linens were 
things of small import. He needed her tender in¬ 
spiring memory. 

She planned to go into unsuspected exile—and 
remain. Set out for California as soon as the little 
church was dedicated Easter Day, insist she was a 
happy pilgrim eager to see the poppy land at spring¬ 
time. As she planned, that Jones might bring Jus¬ 
tine back as his wife, she told herself with that per¬ 
sonal despair all mothers possess whether or no, that 
she was but one of a splendid, commonplace type, 
deserving recognition as did the pilgrim mother or 
the pioneer mother crossing the plains in a schooner 
wagon. She was the woman who toiled while her 
heart prayed and her brain planned to give her chil¬ 
dren broader fields of achievement. There were 
many Marthas-in-the-middle, it would be well when 
there were no more! Just as the pioneer mother 
was no longer forced to snail the plains in the white- 
topped wagon, so it was unfair to ask that mothers 
€uch as she light the torch of educational and social 
progress and yet, because of enforced drudgery due 
to mal-adjustment, stand back in the shadows 1 

Her worn hand rested on Jones’ forehead as she 
thought this last. How tired he was—how frail— 


UP AND COMING 


349 


how splendidly mistaken in duty! One coarse task 
remained for her—remove Bertha, also. There 
must be no hint of a barrier between himself and 
happiness. To the end Martha did the drudgery— 
^‘troubled with many things.” 

He must never suspect, that would be her compen¬ 
sation. He must think it “happened” as things so 
often do! Perhaps she indulged in bitterness when 
she pictured how utterly Justine would blot out 
every trace of her own mediocre personality and 
how complete would be Jones’ satisfaction. But 
before this should come to pass, she must see that 
Bertha, whose mediocrity was the chosen not en¬ 
forced as had been Martha’s, was out of the situa¬ 
tion. Surely Martha who had stooped to drudge 
could stoop to pardonable intrigue which meant her 
son’s future. She never doubted, fond egotist, that 
Justine would refuse to return. That part of the 
finale did not interest her. Always true of petty 
tasks, she was fully occupied with the present de¬ 
tail. 

Martha was competent to deal with Bertha, she 
understood the practical, sordid side of life. She 
was glad of Jones’ generostiy in the money gift for 
her church. Part of it must go to Bertha—she 
would “skimp” to make the rest suffice for the build- 
in 2 “, an art in which she was well versed. She could 
sell several trinkets which would help round out the 
budget of expense. It would be a pleasant sacrifice. 
How wise that she had kept in touch with old neigh¬ 
bors who knew people who knew Bertha’s first and 


350 


UP AND COMING 


now-to-be-important lover. One never knew when 
one would prove useful! Martha was again indomi¬ 
table, dauntless, brooking no interference. Once she 
had fought and planned for Jones’ first postage 
stamp album, later a college career, now his mar¬ 
riage. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


When Jones reached the convalescent stage, too 
weak and startled to come to definite conclusions, 
there passed the last sweet hours between Martha 
and her son. They re-lived those early years of en¬ 
deavour. The time when he read Silas Marner 
aloud while she sewed, the evenings spent battling 
with algebra when popcorn was a delectable feast 
and his mother’s having been a country school 
teacher an honored tradition. Or when they stole 
off to sit in ‘‘nigger heaven” and see Macbeth and 
his father had been abusively angry upon discover¬ 
ing it. Those college days when he even sent back 
his washing each fortnight and Martha rejoiced in 
the labor, never failing to include some toothsome 
treat upon returning the snowy clothes. The mo¬ 
mentous, date—when he bought her a brand new hat, 
the girls tittering about the brightness of its colors! 

Into the past wandered these two at will. With 
Jones it was an antidote to realizing Justine’s loss, 
that he must go on without her, triphammer pulses 
in his forehead beating as if to emphasize the fact. 
To Martha it was a sacred summary. 

A little later, when Jones began to discriminate as 
to his menus and call for gorgeous mandarin robes, 
he was impatient of his mother’s devotion. The trip- 


351 



352 


UP AND COMING 


hammer pulses had not relaxed in their activity. 
The charm of re-living the past had vanished—it 
was irritating to have his mother ever present, 
alarmed at his slightest murmur. He welcomed the 
frizzy haired part-time nurse with her flair for baby 
talk. He demanded long visits from friends and 
refrained from mentioning Bertha lest his mother 
ask him to see her. As a last resort, he plunged into 
business details, began writing editorials for the 
magazine. He was deaf to the doctor's warning. 
American nerves were a hash these days—too much 
business, too little proper play. Bynight should take 
a year in which to develop a wholesome hobby. 

No one understood. Anything was a relief which 
blurred his vision of Justine. Dear lad, thought his 
mother, he did not know how soon it was to change 1 
Already, she had set the machinery in action. 

“Wonder if the girls will come for Easter," he 
asked one day in his listless manner, “the church 
is to be done, is it not?" All the time he was think¬ 
ing of Justine—where she was, what she was do¬ 
ing— 

“I hardly expect them," Martha was answering, 
“Pat’s fiance and Marian’s home ties will prove 
stronger attractions. You are getting well, I ought 
not to ask for anything more." 

“I’ve lost track of the building progress—you still 
hope to have the first service on Easter? It needn’t 
be finished in every detail, you know—fussed up like 
a boudoir." 

“Yes, we can have service . . . come, it is rest 



UP AND COMING 


353 


time,” drawing the shades methodically. He did not 
notice how her hand trembled. 

'‘Oh, Jones,” she added, “would you like any 
change in the pictures in here ? A favorite one you’d 
care to have moved in-” 

“I’m not gong to stay shut up like a jackknife 
many more days,” he interrupted, “you needn’t plan 
to keep me on spoon vittles. No, the pictures are all 
right,” if only she would go before he actually cried, 
admitted that to look at Justine’s portrait would 
emphasize the temple pulse beats. Could she never 
understand or be satisfied ? He dreaded the bromidic 
Easter service although it was weeks ahead, he 
dreaded returning to work, meeting the world as a 
well man for whom no concessions were to be made. 
He protested the whole machinery of existence as 
cruel, monotonous, futile. 

“Heavy weather today,” he murmured politely, 
“are you going out?” 

“No—a nap. I’m getting to be quite a pussy cat. 
Much as I hate to tell you. I’m afraid this must be 
my last eastern winter. I was shortsighted to ask 
for a community church when my old bones needed 
a Pasadena bungalow,” kissing him, she disap¬ 
peared, wondering if he regarded her hint as 
significant. 

It fell on deaf ears. Jones went over to his desk! 
How many letters had he written Justine in de¬ 
lirium? How many had he sent before the smash? 
Why speculate when only one had been fully 
answered ? 


23 



354 


UP AND COMING 


In it she admitted her father overreached her 
worst hopes. Drinking steadily, content with life 
amid tag-ends of humanity, it had been a hideous 
thing to witness, a grim warning. She became 
stunned, intimidated because of the contrast between 
Martha Bynight who once scrubbed floors and Tom 
Dunlevy who formerly led cotillions. Now Martha 
Bynight was a gentle cameo, suggesting gracious 
ease while blear-eyed and besotted of brain, Tom 
Dunlevy was known as “the old Un” and hailed as 
comrade by similar soldiers of fortune. 

“It makes me a coward,” she wrote, “a snob- 
coward, deadly combination. I am a snob because 
I am glad he is here where no one will ever know. I 
am a coward because I want to sneak back to re¬ 
spectability with a bourgeoisie fidelity. Fm afraid 
of life because of the interlude in Cornwall—I, who 
prated of it so boldly. If my fingers didn’t have a 
knack for splashing colors I’d choose the reindeer 
herder. I’m inconsistently stubborn. As it happens. 
I’m the go in Buenos Aires—father a hundred miles 
removed—I’m painting double chins and flabby noses 
with a flattering hand—olive-skinned stupids who 
pay well and ask little! I shall stay on until the rage 
passes. 

“I admit defeat—does that satisfy you? I still 
love you. In many ways I have come to respect you 
for doing the decent thing. I’m no longer cocksure 
as when I left town. But I won’t rush back to marry 
you and cope with your mother’s tragic jealousy and 
my own petty variety! Ah, the truth is out—I re- 


UP AND COMING 


355 


alize we’d struggle for supremacy with you until the 
last. In making you supreme she created no other 
heights to turn to for personal solace. I have my 
brush. You see, I’d pity her and despise myself—a 
quicksand foundation. And I’d pity you, too, for 
that fast increasing American combination of a peas¬ 
ant body and a newly evolved patrician brain engaged 
in neurotic conflict. 

‘‘Before I’d come back. I’d have to have the as¬ 
surance that things would be topsyturvied to suit 
me—contemptible little me. Then, romantic coward, 
I’d say yes and rush back to you. And it would 
smash you, dearest, which would be quite pathetic. 
So let us each do big things with work and forget 
personal things. After all, happiness is no engulf¬ 
ing emotion, it is casual—and we ought not fret too 
much anent either its appearance or departure. . . .” 

He sat, idly sticking the penpoint into the blotter 
with neurotic brutality, recalling the letter—the 
doctor’s last visit: 

“You owe your recovery largely to your mother, 
no nurse would have stayed by as she did.” 

Was he to be eternally grateful in that unpleasant 
manner which turns the helpless debtor against the 
one who has given without measure? He, a great 
hulk of a man with a schoolgirl’s nerves and a tragic 
heart, what was he to do with his future? Go on 
alone! He indulged in further thoughts of what 
might have been had he remained at his grandfather’s 
level. He would now be a carpenter with a tidy shop, 
a wife and family, his mother an accepted type of 


356 


UP AND COMING 


granny in wudgy dresses, his sisters married in a 
similar strata—and all quite happy, very likely! Had 
the climb been worth it ? 

He recalled several lads in his employ spurred on 
by the same merciless ambitions—saving their money 
for education while their parents sifted ashes to save 
coals. He sometimes longed to thwart these am¬ 
bitions and point to danger signals ahead. Yet why? 
What right had he to interfere? It was part of 
America’s progress just as peasants in certain 
countries were punished with the lash for learning 
to read—and became martyrs and examples to their 
children! 

His hand fumbled with another unanswered 
letter received during his illness. Word from his 
alma mater that they wished to confer an honorary 
degree upon him in recognition of his book. 

This last triumph suggested further memories of 
embittered youth, ignoring snobs, trying to be un¬ 
conscious of the genial circle which kept him an out¬ 
sider, dependent on his mother for inspiration—as 
well as his washing! Could he never escape the debt ? 
Justine was wrong—he had smashed not because he 
did what she would have asked but because he failed 
to do so. 

With the furious speed of the drowning he re¬ 
viewed each step which had brought him to this pass. 
For instance, his part in the war, barred from action 
because of poor eyes and age, was the safe task of 
directing those who faced hell-fire. To be hailed a 
patriot seemed a mockery, rousing puritanical 


UP AND COMING 


357 


neuroses when he remembered letters of praise by- 
self-seeking politicians, a few cancelled checks. 
What right had he to moan and beat a drum of 
personal discontent? In comparison, his problems 
seemed unreal. He was mentally slipping—he must 
pull up from this abnormal attitude, act brutally if 
need be—but face facts. He must admit that life 
was of more consequence than love or justice. He 
wanted his children, not his mother. Some greater 
monument than the little church or his collection of 
paintings on silk which would be put under glass at 
the museum! In comparison with such pap, to have 
died in the trenches would have been glorious. 

In trying to shield others from life, he had per¬ 
mitted life to evade him. A nebulous swirl cf colors 
it seemed, he standing in maternal shadows. . . . 
He would not go on alone. He would marry Justine. 
Having reached this decision he methodically set to 
work to phrase the indictment against his mother. 

Ah, hers was a crime against time. For the 
present must be composed of one third of yesterday, 
one third of today and one third of tomorrow, else 
the trinity is lacking—a trinity as unchanging as 
the seasons. Martha prevented tomorrow’s promise 
lest it blur yesterday’s fulfillment. To deny time 
was to defy eternity. Small wonder he had smashed! 

He wrote a cablegram to Justine, glorious libera¬ 
tion inspiring its wording- He was no longer an 
ascetic, a libertine, an overly conscientious, muddled 
soul. The taste for life was his. Only Justine 
mattered. 


358 


UP AND COMING 


He would wait to tell his mother until Easter 
Sunday when religious fervor was upon her and she 
would find orthodox comfort. But that, as was 
Bertha’s fate, was really incidental. 

Having sent the cable, he sat in the dusk planning 
extravagant joys, picturing the future as he had never 
dared to picture it. Tomorrow was his. Justine 
was tomorrow . . . the world was new, dazzling! 


Martha’s house was in order. Personal joy from 
completing the church was secondary to the content¬ 
ment of having cleared the way for Jones. She would 
tell him of her plans after the Easter service. 

It had been simple to cope with Bertha—one’s 
wishes are always apt to be considered when a sub¬ 
stantial sum acts as aid-de-camp. Bertha had little 
to lose—much to gain. 

During Jones’ tedious illness, Jo Willard had be¬ 
gun to write her ponderous letters, send postcards of 
Detroit, tell of his wife’s divorce due to no fault of 
his, heaven knows, his excellent butcher business— 
he understood Bertha lacked for nothing in the way 
of the world’s goods—and his loneliness. How glad 
that Mrs. McGlashan and a Mrs. Gleed and a Mrs. 
Somebody else in the most casual, roundabout way 
had written of her—seemed fate, didn’t it—and that 
she was unmarried and handsome—and well off. 
Well, well! My, what an opening for a millinery 
business such as hers right up in Detroit—maybe 
when the boats got to running she would come up and 


UP AND COMING 


359 


see for herself—wasn’t it a small world, after all? 
He had lots to say to her. Who knows? 

In Bertha’s heart stirred hope of that resumed 
romance. Any glamour concerning Jones had long 
ago died into disappointment. Poppy’s nagging 
authority had become a burden. Exaggerated rumors 
concerning Jones’ illness were afloat—he would never 
be well, he had cancer, consumption, heaven knows 
what—she hated sick men, she knew so well that his 
mother would watch him like a child. Incidentally, 
she began to dislike this mother she had grovelled 
before. She did not quite know why. She thought 
Jones was ill partly because Justine Dunlevy was 
“through with him.” She had read about Miss 
Dunlevy’s success as a miniature painter in South 
America! Jo’s speedily increasing letters made her 
feel superior to the entire situation—as if she were of 
interest to someone. Jones had been right—everyone 
craved to be essential to someone. 

Also, she was shrewd. She concealed any anger 
when Martha met her on her own ground and they 
talked as women who knew life at first hand. Jones 
was very likely to be ill a long time—he was better 
rid of Bertha and his mother was willing to buy her 
off—she hoped her son would some day marry. She 
too, was going away. She realized she had been the 
reason for his never having done so—a wicked 
reason. She wondered why Bertha did not go out of 
town and start into business—she had no idea if she 
had any friends- 

Bertha interrupted with the proud retort that she 



36 o 


UP AND COMING 


was wanted by someone, there was no need to think 
otherwise, she was no forlornity. 

“Then I should go to that someone,’’ advised 
Martha, “it is right to go where one is wanted and to 
leave if one is not. Have I made it clear? Does it 
help you to know I shall go away, too?” eager to 
make Bertha feel she was not alone in the situation. 

Bertha indulged in surly meditation. Then she ex¬ 
claimed : “There’s no pleasure for me to be tolerated 
—I wish the pair of ’em joy! If only I could be as 
young again as when he first asked me to dance!” 

In her flamboyant black gown with strings of 
coral beads she presented a somewhat handsome ap¬ 
pearance. Martha lied in assuring her that youth, to 
all intents and purposes, was still hers. 

“What of you?” Bertha asked, tender because of 
this mother’s conspiracy. 

“I don’t matter. Youth matters. I am like many 
drudging mothers who gave their children advantages 
and was foolish enough to think I would share in 
the advantages. But mine is a great satisfaction—if 
I am no longer essential to my children, I have made 
them essential to the world—that is enough. I who 
brought you into Jones’ life and pushed Justine from 
it, I who made him ill but, God grant, have made 
him well!” 

“You’re too good for any of them,” Martha said 
roughly, “yet what you say is so—ain’t that queer ?” 

She did not reject the money—“it was coming to 
her,” she felt, pay for her silence even to Poppy. In 
return, she confided the news that Jo Willard, an 


UP AND COMING 


361 


early suitor, had every indication of becoming a 
tardy husband—no one need feel sorry for little 
Bertha—no siree! 

“I won’t see Jones,” she decided, “what’s the use 
—it’s been hard enough to talk to him of anything, 
let alone a thing like this breaking up. I don’t want 
to witness his joy. I don’t want him to witness my 
regret—all women are fools such times. If he wants 
to break the ice and see me, it is up to him. You can 
tell him I’m going to Detroit to start into business 
the first of the month and Poppy will stay on here 
until I’ve fully established myself—she’ll have my 
address. ... I won’t write—I guess we understand 
each other.” 

Martha’s remaining ambition was to tell Jones as 
successfully as she had argued with Bertha that she 
must live in a perpetual June climate, she wanted to 
go away at once and stay indefinitely, it was her 
dearest wish. The flurry of personal prominence 
about the church’s dedication now seemed something 
to be endured—finished as speedily as possible. She 
was keen to be away—alone. The letters from her 
girls expressing regret at not being able to come 
on for Easter inspired neither resentment nor 
regret. 

It was satisfying to know that none of her grand¬ 
children would have to accomplish the initial toil 
which had defeated her personal dreams. Their 
backgrounds were secure, self-respecting no matter 
how diverse in interests. She was thinking of this 
as she went with Jones into the church for the Easter 


362 


UP AND COMING 


service, unmindful of the homage of all who had 
gathered to worship. 

‘^Are you satisfied?” Jones asked, when the service 
had ended and the crowd had left them alone. 

‘‘Very satisfied—all I ask is your health and hap¬ 
piness,” was her answer. 

“I shall have it,” Justine’s glad answer repeating 
itself as he spoke. 

“I wish,” Martha confided as they returned to the 
lodge, the crocuses lining the path winking up at 
her, “Justine’s portrait could come to life—I would 
like to tell her something.” 

Jones paused in their walk—should he explain 
now, adding in a careless way that Bertha without 
explanation had seen fit to leave the city? No—not 
yet—at twilight when she poured tea in the study, 
Justine’s portrait above her—then he would read 
Justine’s cable in reply to his. 

Instead, he talked of further altar equipment, 
wondering why his allowance had not provided for 
such detail. 

“I must rest before dinner—so ought you,” she 
begged, “don’t ask me to see any people—this Easter 
is very solemn,” she was telling her brave heart it 
was the last Easter she would spend in her own home 
—with her son. But Martha was to be rewarded 
with one of those dramatic incidents which make 
life more bearable—one of those swift, startling 
things which “happen around the corner.” 

“You have the fortune to witness the result of your 
own good deeds,” Jones said, “most of us are denied 



UP AND COMING 


363 


that opportunity,” but he knew his voice was vague, 
his manner lacking interest. He was wondering if 
Justine had received his mid-ocean wireless message, 
did she comprehend his love, his joyous strength of 
purpose? He was prepared to prove that love and 
happiness were neither accidental nor casual, that 
should comprise the first argument. What did 
chapels with snivelling curates and nice old ladies’ 
redeemed and regulation souls matter ? Only Justine 
mattered. 

At twilight when he came to see if she would not 
pour tea, she was sleeping in her great chair. He 
realized she was strangely dainty of appearance, as 
if gently bred, unacquainted with hardship. Her 
wise, withered cheeks were the tint of a halfway 
opened rose—her wish seemed to have been granted 
a trifle too late. 

Bending down, he saw she did not breathe. In the 
first rush of grief were two well-defined reactions, 
proof of Martha’s wisdom. 

‘‘Mother lived just to see her little church 
completed.” 

“Thank God, I cabled Justine before this happened 
—she will know I would have done her wish 
regardless.” 

So the world believed, including her daughters, 
that Martha Bynight lived only to see the completed 
church—and she was spared the pain of her son’s 
marriage. 

After which event a few gossips murmured about 
the eldest Bynight’s marriage in a lion’s cage and his 


364 


UP AND COMING 


grandson’s marriage in his own church—what a 
ferris wheel the social game proved to be! 

If Jones wondered it was with proper masculine 
conceit, not concerning either his mother or Bertha. 
But—would Justine not have returned eventually, 
trusting to his love to see that all was well? 

If Justine wondered it concerned her children’s 
future. She shared the wise fears of the gently born 
who realize that only by foresight and wisdom can 
the children of such as they retain their leadership 
and purpose among men! Her problem, removed 
from Martha’s, was equal in complexity- Martha 
had watched her children climb beyond her; Justine 
must take heed lest hers wandered beneath her! 

It was Justine’s summary of his mother that Jones 
accepted as his consolation: 

‘‘Your heritage from this brave visioned woman is 
an ideal—service! It is our duty to bequeath it to 
our children, in unlike terms, but with the same 
selfless sincerity.” 


The End 


^ Selection from the 
Catalogue of 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 


Oomplete Catalogues sent 
on application 






The Chain 


By 

Charles Hanson Towne 


Here is a delightful novel from the pen of 
one who is already distinguished as editor, 
poet, and wit. The Chain is a tale of New 
York of the last generation, sparkling with 
illuminating sidelights on interesting and im¬ 
portant people—particularly the literati—with 
whom the author has been intimately associ¬ 
ated for many years. It is a novel peopled 
with characters so real and living as soon to 
seem old acquaintances, even friends. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 


New York 


London 




The Boy Grew Older 

By 

Heywood Broun 

The boy who grew older was deserted at the 
age of two weeks by his mother. That left his 
upbringing entirely in the hands of Peter Neale, 
his father, who conducted a sporting column in a 
newspaper. A nurse helped some, but she held 
out for her regular Sundays off, and Peter found 
that even the job of “ Sunday father ” required 
all that he had, and more. He had set his heart 
on making this son of his a successor to him in 
the newspaper business, but there was something 
strange and alien in his boy that warred against 
this purpose. Finally, when the boy grew old 
enough to find his mother, Peter learned what 
that alien thing was, and the mother learned 
that even in flight she had not come scot free of 
motherhood. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 





Where the 
Sun Swings North 

By 

Barrett Willoughby 

Read, and you’ll agree that “Where the Sun 
Swings North” is a find! So is Barrett Wil¬ 
loughby ! 

Scotty Allan, famous throughout all the North¬ 
west, calls this the best book yet about Alaska— 
and the truest. 

The breath of actuality blows through its fast- 
moving pages; its people are real, not reel Its 
atmosphere is inspiringly authentic, because its 
author, a born-there Alaskan, knows —and also 
knows how to write with a zest of colorful charm 
and human understanding. 

It’s an altogether bully book of love and ad¬ 
venture “where the sun swings north,” with a 
background and treatment delightfully different. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York 




London 







Breath of Life 

By 

Arthur Tuckerman 

After the deluge of post-war novels by 
younger authors it is refreshing to come 
upon one which does not attempt to prove 
everything stupid—and most things useless. 
Arthur Tuckerman, in this first novel, de¬ 
picts his generation truthfully, yet without 
cynicism. 

Breath of Life can hardly fail to please any¬ 
one who enjoys a thoroughly readable novel. 
It is the story of a young New Yorker fresh 
from college and of his effort to find his right 
place in life. A glamorous interlude of ad¬ 
venture on a Caribbean Isle carries the plot 
forward with delightful smoothness to a 
perfect ending. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 





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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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